


Bonds of Silk and Steel

by anna1795, Gumby1011



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Bigotry & Prejudice, Canon-Typical Violence, Fantasy, Feudalism, Fictional Religion & Theology, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Memory Reading, Mind and Mood Reading, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Cuddling, Public Torture, Transgender, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 15:49:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 54,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4612443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anna1795/pseuds/anna1795, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gumby1011/pseuds/Gumby1011
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Human! AU</p><p>On a continent that has been ravaged by decades of war and ruin, commoner and noble alike do their best to survive. In every level of society, the harsh realities of fiefdoms and kingdoms in constant conflict are realized, and allegiance to the Autobot or Decepticon army can spell the difference between life and death. Every side of the war has its Noble Trines, dictating their people and dictated by tradition and law in turn. </p><p>Every story, from that of a Living God to the most humble of common barkeeps, is worth noting in these pages. Here, in this world of blazing fire and spilled blood, it's the bond between lovers and lords that keeps Cybertron turning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wasteland Wandering

**Author's Note:**

> Transformers is property of Hasbro Studios. We do not own these characters. We heartily encourage your enjoyment, and look forward to your comments and constructive criticisms. We've worked on other projects together before, but this is our first duo act. 
> 
> This chapter is written by Gumby1011, a longtime friend and fellow writer.

The deserts of Simfur were not known for being kind to inhabitants, nor invaders. To the uninitiated, the scorching sun and extreme distance between oases might pose the most immediate threat, or the numerous deadly creatures that burrowed in the sand. Soldier and civilian alike had perished in these treacherous scarlet sands, their bones picked clean and bleached by the sun before blowing away in the many sandstorms that were such a commonality. If one had a map, then the well-tread roads could provide a salvation to any party that sought to breach the desert kingdom’s borders on business. It was always best not to travel alone.

Three travellers on horseback rode one such old, worn-down desert road in the midday heat. The first two seemed pleasant enough. The one at the head of the (rather tiny) caravan kept his head held high, blue eyes scanning the red-sanded scrublands as a soft desert wind tousled a head of short-kept, dark-brown hair and a well-kept beard. He wore a red tunic with blue trousers, his typical armor stowed away in a few of the bags hanging from his horse’s saddle. Said saddle was tied directly to the bridle of the horse behind him, if only because that particular rider was so inexperienced.

The rider in question was a small boy, dressed in an orange tunic and trousers, with a slim build and a mass of lighter-brown curls atop his head. His own green eyes looked around the desert in wonder- he barely ever got the chance to travel, and when he did, he enjoyed every last second of it! These two riders looked for all the world like a father and son, out on a simple ride through a natural wonderland of great beauty and unforgettable power. But alas, this was not the situation for everyone.

Enter, the third rider.

He was currently clad in a full suit of red and white battleplate, with the exception of the helmet he was holding under one arm. Even with his mind dead set on imminent bandit ambushes, he didn’t want to succumb to heatstroke. The other arm was holding up a wind-whipped handwritten piece of paper that he was trying his damnest to focus on. For a few seconds. Then he released another wave of the tirades he’d been periodically spouting all day. “For the Gods’ sake, I will never understand why you insist we move in broad daylight! In the desert!”

The man at the head of the caravan closed his eyes and sighed that sigh of an old friend bearing witness to a running gag with infinite patience and good-natured humor. “Because I’m on this trip to take in the beauty of this world with my own two eyes. Without any visor, infantry lines, or political nonsense getting in the way.”

“And that’s good and all, but why would you choose to come out to a desert?” The last rider waved his hands about. “There’s nothing here! And the risks to our health is downright absurd! Have you ever treated a second-degree sunburn victim? Because I have! You know where that happened?”

The lead rider couldn’t help but grin. “In the des-”

“IN THE DESERT!”

“Ah.”

“And one more thing- these places are _terrible_ for your armor! Sand gets all caught up in the hinges, and you can barely-” for a moment the last rider struggled to open his page hand, only to have to bash the sand out of that gauntlet with his helmet before it’d budge. “I mean come _on_ Lord Op-”

“ _Orion._ ” The front rider corrected. “And if you’re so worried about the heat and the sand, why not just change out of that steel shell and into something a little less environmentally suicidal?”

The last rider just scoffed. “What, and get caught out here without any way to defend myself when bandits show up later? Sorry, Orion, but between heat exhaustion and death, I can only self-treat one of those conditions.”

“Ratchet may complain of the heat and the sand...” The middle rider interjected, his voice vaguely melodious. “But Wheelie finds these desert vistas quite grand!”

Ratchet rolled his eyes from the back of the caravan. “Oh for Primus’ sake, Wheelie, please don’t start doing the rhyming thing again.”

Wheelie simply shrugged at this. “A minstrel in training must keep his mind sharp. This exercise keeps me and lyrical block apart.”

“That didn’t rhyme.” Ratchet gruffly pointed out. “Andthe syllable flow was dreadful.”

Wheelie puzzled over this for a moment, before shrugging. “I do think you’re right, thank you for the correction. But I am still a child, don’t expect true perfection.”

The armored rider let out an anguished groan from the back of the caravan, nearly slamming his head on the back of his white mare’s head in a practiced fashion.

“Perhaps you’d better be able to endure the heat if you focused on that draft of the manuscript?” Orion hollered back to his old friend.

“I’ve already read it five times, m’lord!” Ratchet called back.

“Oh, Ratchet, you flatter me.” Orion smiled. “I’m just a simple dock worker from Iacon, there’s hardly anything _lordly_ about me.”

“The _hell_ there isn’t,” Ratchet murmured.

“What was that?” Orion called from up front.

The armored man cleared his throat. “I _said_ ‘it was then- with Starscream’s forces routed- that Optimus Prime and his party were able to complete their pincer maneuver with the Wreckers, leading to utter annihilation of the Decepticon forces with the exception of the Devastators who-as always- were barely able to fight their way out of the battle to safety. That said, the second battle of Praxus was finally won.’”

Orion nodded. “Ah yes, thank you, Ratchet. I’d almost forgotten how that one ended.”

The armored medic simply grumbled under his breath at this. “You know Orion, I wouldn’t mind this being my only entertainment if your writing wasn’t every bit as dry as this desert. It’s to the point where looking at one just reminds me of the other!”

“You wound me, my old friend…” Orion sighed, eyes closed in slight weariness and dramatic sarcasm. He knew that Ratchet meant well, but when he was at his most concerned he could always be counted on to get a little… abrasive. A lot like the sand, come to think of it. The lead rider couldn’t help but smile at that particular thought. “Besides, that kind of thinking won’t help. We are still six days off of Iacon, and your attitude is only going to make the trip seem that much longer. For all of us.”

For a few moments the caravan carried on in silence until Ratchet let out a long, slow and terribly exasperated sigh. “Alright. Yeah. You’re right, fine.”

“Perhaps this one could make the day fly,” Wheelie piped up “With an improv duet from my Lute and I!” Without even waiting for an answer from his friends, he reached for the small lute hanging from his horse’s saddle. But before he could even get a grip on the neck of the instrument, something small and hard hit him in the back of the head. On top of that, whatever it was got tangled in his hair.   
  
“NO!” Ratchet barked severely. “None of that! _SHAME_ on you!!”

At this, the young minstrel didn’t even bother to formulate a lyrical retort. Instead he simply fished out a small slingshot from his pocket, grabbed the stone from his hair, and returned it to sender. With gusto.

As the stone bounced off Ratchet’s forehead he immediately put a hand to the spot in a feeble attempt to prevent a welt. “OW!” He grunted. “You little half-pint, no goo-”

“I believe what Ratchet was trying to say…” Orion interjected. “Was that we’d much prefer one of your flute songs, Wheelie.”

For a second Ratchet went to correct his leader. Then, he realized the flute would rob Wheelie of his ability to both sing _and_ rhyme. “Absolutely, I concur!” Ratchet hollered back, thumb raised in affirmation.

Wheelie simply shrugged. “For crying out loud, I’m a slave to the crowd.” He grabbed a small wooden flute from his saddle without so much as another word.

As Wheelie got started playing his instrumental solo, Ratchet wasted no time in breaking formation, spurring his horse up past the minstrel and right next to Orion. “Thank you for that.”

“For what?” Orion asked in the slightest mockery of confusion.

“Ah. Right, right.” Ratchet rolled his eyes as his horse got into its stride along the lead horse. “Well in that case, how’ve you been?”

“Oh, I’ve been doing well,” Orion laughed. “To be honest I feel better than I have in years.”

Ratchet nodded sagely. “Been stressful at Iacon, has it?”

“Yes, indeed it has been. Very stressful, many ships to empty and load up, day in and day out.”

The armored man couldn’t help but scowl. “Oh come on, friend, I’ll respect the name thing but we haven’t been able to talk this entire trip! I know you better than that, you _can_ talk to me, you know.”

Another few moments of silence went by. Orion’s eyes surveyed the desert once more, taking in every detail. Or, perhaps they were observing absolutely nothing as their owner gathered his thoughts. Either way, the man let out a resigned sigh after a minute or two. “I’m afraid Prowl may not be getting used to Jazz.”

“Really?” Ratchet quirked an eyebrow. “But it’s been nearly six months! He should have at least made peace with Jazz by now.”

“Yes, I’m aware.” Orion sighed. He'd become very good at the vocal gesture over the past few weeks of travel. “But still, there are certain aspects of his reputation that Prowl seems determined to use as proof of his unworthiness. Namely that he’s manipulative, untrustworthy, egotistical…”

“Well, he _does_ have a bit of an ego on him,” Ratchet conceded. “But the rest of that is positively bollocks! We _know_ him. And he’s every bit as loyal to the cause and you as Bumblebee ever was!”

“You know…” Orion sighed. “He’d probably punch you just for saying that. It’s my understanding that he’s grown quite tired of the comparisons to his late cousin. And to be honest, I don’t blame him; he grieved just as long as any of us.”

“I guess it might be easy for some people to forget that…” Ratchet shrugged. “The man _did_ essentially replace Bee.”

“In title only.” Orion shook his head. “He manages his information network now just as well as he ever did before his appointment to Primal Consort. He’s hardly ever even _around._ ” The older man smiled ruefully. “It gets the other nobles into a bit of a tizzy with his absences."

Ratchet once again shrugged. “I dunno, maybe if he and Prowl were to spend some time together, they’d get used to one another?”

Another moment of profound silence rang out, with only Wheelie’s flute and the desert wind’s mournful singing harmonizing with it. “I somehow doubt that, very much.” Another few minutes passed in silence before a grumbling stomach cried out for help. “Speaking of which.” Orion was instantly rummaging through his various saddlebags, looking for something to eat.

“Don’t check your bags now; look just there, to the east!” Wheelie had stopped playing and was pointing of to one side of the trail. “A movable, natural, wild-raised feast!”

Ratchet just smirked as he looked to where the young minstrel was pointing. “That’s a hare, Wheelie, and a scrawny one at that.”

“Hrm…” Orion thought for a minute, then shrugged. “I could go for some hare, Wheelie.”

Orion barely even needed to say that much, Wheelie had already drawn his slingshot and loaded it with a small, leaden spike-ball. He took aim. “You wish it, I dish it!” With that, he released the slingshot with fervor. The spike-ball flew true, slamming into the side of the hare and sending it over the edge of the dried riverbed it’d been sitting on. “Wheelie has a hunch that he just procured lunch!” The minstrel instantly hopped off the horse and ran off the side of the trail, after the hare. However, he stopped stark still when he got to the edge of the dry riverbed.

Ratchet cocked an eyebrow. “What in blazes-”

“OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT!” Wheelie practically screamed as he started sprinting back towards his horse, a thundering sound rolling up behind him. Orion just sighed, wearily. Ratchet, for his part, beat his helmet against his chest plate in a show of that primal defiance that only comes to a man who’d gambled on his life and won. Which, as it just so happened, he very well may have done. The minstrel in the meantime barely clambered back up on his horse before the mounted bandits came over the edge of the riverbank.

They were masked and clad in surprisingly lightly-colored outfits, likely meant to diffuse the desert sun. It only took a moment for the troupe to totally surround the caravan. There were around eight of them, not great odds for coming out on top of the confrontation for the band of three.

“And a hearty good afternoon to you, folks!” The lead bandit- a man with an alarming number of brass teeth- sneered from under his hood. “How are we all doing on this fine day in these glorious and _very_ deadly wastelands?”


	2. Desert Drifter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, we have three characters who're at the mercy of desert bandits! Who can come to their rescue? I'll give you a hint: two swords.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by anna1795. We hope that you enjoy.

 It was too hot out, the sand was particularly dusty today, and there were neither clouds nor trees to impede the blazing sun overhead. Through the stretches of red sand and deep brown rocks and scrub, a solitary horse and rider kicked up more of the earth in their slow, careful wake. With the gentlest tug back on well-worn reigns, the dappled grey mountain horse halted, giving a shake of its head while its cloaked rider slid from the saddle to inspect a piece of wood. The wood, the remains of a dead tree likely washed down from the high mountains in years past by infrequent floods, was bone white and bore numerous recent scratches and slices. The rider, under his ragged and faded burnoose, took a deep breath to make a verbal observation and promptly started hacking and coughing through a mouthful of dust.

*cough* “ _Too_ …” *cough*” _much_ … “*wheeze* “ _sand_!” Behind the young man’s shaking back, his horse seemed to give off a snickering snort. Finally, its rider spat a mouthful of muddy saliva onto the ground and reset himself. “Shut up, Gasket,” the rider rebuked his horse without much venom in his gruff voice. “You’re not coughing your lungs up, now are you?”              

Gasket the horse gave a single, solitary cough.  Coming from a human, it would’ve been construed as sarcastic. From the horse…it still came across that way.             

“Okay, now you’re just doing that to spite me.” Under the maroon hood, a set of scratched red goggles was lifted from narrow, amber-brown eyes to better examine the numerous blade marks on the dried tree trunk, indicators of where somebody had been testing a newly acquired blade. “Bastards came this way, alright. You know, it’s almost like they’re leaving all these signs for me to find, saying ‘Please kill us, we don’t deserve to live.’” Satisfied with his findings, he reset the goggles over his eyes and mounted his horse again, trotting in the direction that they had been travelling in. “So, what should I do first, do you think? Get my sword, tie them up, rob ‘em blind, then kill them? Or get my sword, then kill them, then rob them blind?”          

Gasket tilted his ears back towards his rider and gave a snort.        

“What, you want me to be merciful now?”        

The horse nickered, flapping his hair-studded dark lips.       

“Don’t you ‘oh, Drift’ me; I’m asking a legitimate question!” The young man named Drift stared at the back of his mount’s head with one raised eyebrow underneath his hood. “Being unmerciful has worked before, so why should it be different now? They stole Gasket’s sword!”

The dark grey head turned in his direction, one dark brown eye staring at him like he had addressed his steed for an unnecessary reason. **  
**

“Different Gasket, you dozy pony.” The two moved in silence for a good few minutes, passing bare desert scrub and dull rock formations. “Fine, I’ll be merciful and kill them first BEFORE I rob them. Happy?” Drift asked sullenly, receiving a short whinny in response. The grey mountain horse broke into a short gallop up a sand dune before sliding down the other side in animalistic merriment, kicking up a wave of sand that blew back into Drift’s tinted goggles. With a sputter, the rider wiped the fine grains from the stained glass. “Have I mentioned yet how much I hate sand? And dry heat? And the desert?”

A gust of wind mockingly blew another small cloud of dust back into Drift’s face, and he tucked his white cotton kurziyya further into his hood to block his mouth from the offending earth. “If one of us doesn’t arrive at the next village with some form of heat exhaustion, Gasket, I think this whole venture might not have meant anything,” he exclaimed in sarcastic exasperation, sliding gloved hands into the sleeves of his robe to draw out the water skin he always kept close to his person and taking a long draught.

Suddenly, a shrill scream and cursing made the young man jump in his saddle and spooked Gasket, making the stocky horse paw at the ground and shuffle anxiously. Drift quickly stoppered the skin and tucked it back in his robe before pulling off his burnoose, roughly bunching it together and stuffing into the emptiest of his two saddle packs. He reached both hands behind him, but only one found the hilt of a sheathed sword while the other grasped at empty air and leather in muscular reflex. Hissing in frustration, Drift reached instead for the narrow quiver of arrows behind him and the crossbow on his back. Notching an arrow into the crossbow and priming the weapon, He slowed Gasket to a near-crawl and approached the situation with caution, keeping behind a large rock pile for cover.

Eight gaudy desert bandits kept in a tight ring around their unfortunate prey, leaving no room for escape from their crude weapons and words. The one who had emitted the scream, a child, was being driven away from the captured band of riders by two of the older bandits, separating young from parent to keep them compliant. The bandit leader, brass teeth gleaming in the sun even from this distance, was threatening the tallest rider with an ill-procured blade; with a pang of rage-fueled recognition, Drift saw that it was the other half of not-horse Gasket’s twin blades.

“I really don’t want to get involved,” Drift hissed, but Gasket just nudged him in the back with the front of his head. “No, Gasket, you have no idea how much I don’t want to be involved.” There was retrieving his sword (which held more sentimental value than actual use these days), and then there was diving into a suicidal situation that would probably involve massive amounts of bloodshed and violence...in front of witnesses. Namby-pamby, Southern AUTOBOT witnesses, for that matter.

Unsympathetic, Gasket tugged down Drift’s kurziyya and nipped at his ragged black hair. Drift flapped his hands at his pesky mount to drive him away, but was called back to paying attention when the ringleader of the bandit troupe grabbed the child in orange and had the stolen sword at the kid’s throat. ‘No way in the Hells that I’m letting Gasket’s sword be covered in a child’s blood,’ the sellsword thought ruthlessly, checking the bolt in his crossbow before letting it loose. The projectile flew with graceful accuracy and buried itself right below the bandit’s shoulderblade. It wasn’t enough to punch through the armor and puncture a lung, but it was enough to get him away from the kid with a yelp of pain and a spooked stagger from his horse.

The conflict descended into disarray almost instantaneously, with the bandits wheeling around wildly to find out who ambushed them and turning their backs on their victims. Victims who, in fact, were well-armed and had decades of fighting experience between them. Axe blade cut through leather like a knife through butter, and the knife granted to every professional medic as a means of self defence was slashing through straps and skin with practiced ease. Bolt after bolt from Drift’s crossbow buried itself into flesh, though rarely resulting in a fatal wound and simply driving the bandits into a maddened frenzy. **  
**

“Hells,” the sellsword groaned when two of the bandits caught on to where he had been partially hidden and thundered towards him, one wielding a mace and the other a rusted spear. “Gasket!” he snapped in his battle rage, grabbing the only sword that he had hanging from his saddle and directing the aging horse to another sand dune with a push to the head and a slap on his haunches. The gray horse gave a snort and trotted to safety, though he wasn’t completely oblivious to his owner’s half-hearted attempt at murder-suicide.

No longer obscured by a protective woolen cloak, muscular shoulders rolled and rattled aged, dull black armor plating and rusted mail. Under a tattered crimson-and-black battle tunic, pleated leggings and broken in boots shuffled and slid into a battle-ready stance. Drift readjusted his gloved grip on the one longsword that he still possessed and fearlessly faced down the two approaching riders intent on his untimely and violent demise.

The spear-wielder must not have been very bright, for he chucked his spear with a grunt to let the projectile carry itself towards Drift’s head. Its intended target neatly side-stepped the poorly aimed spear, where it landed in the dirt, and brought his sword around to slice at the spearman’s horse’s front legs. With a squeal, the bandit’s horse toppled into the sand and stones, pitching its rider from the saddle and throwing him brutally against a sandstone monolith. Drift barely flinched at the sickening crack of bone and moved out of the way of the expertly swing of the other rider’s spiked mace. This opponent, it seemed, had a bit more brain and experience to him because after he missed bashing Drift’s head in, he drove his own steed around for another swipe. Drift took another swipe at the rider’s mount, but had to dodge out of the way of another threatened clubbing. Reaching around, he grabbed the shaft of the spear and wrenched it out of the dirt, then swung it up, over his head, and barely grazed the mace-wielder’s neck. It was enough, however, to make him slide out of the saddle and lead heavily on his back with a groan. The groan quickly shifted to a gurgling scream as the black-and-crimson sellsword slammed a boot down on the center of his chest and drove the spear into his defeated opponent’s unprotected neck. With a fountain of blood and a twitching of limbs, the second rider met his bloody, miserable end.

Sweaty and gasping for air, Drift ran a leather glove over his brow to wipe away hair and sweat. There were no other approaching horsemen, however, with them being occupied by the two experienced warriors. “Fools,” he wheezed under his breath, grabbing at the reigns of the riderless bay horse that shuffled nervously nearby. ‘If those Autobots were smart, they’d have ridden for the hills by now. They’ll only get themselves killed, now.’ Still, they didn’t need him, and to the victor went the spoils of battle. No horse would ever replace Gasket in Drift’s eyes, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t get an upgrade on some equipment. The bulging saddlebags were in significantly better shape than his own, but one seemed to contain nothing but meat. It looked like that the bandits had tried their hand at drying their food for later use but had done so improperly; the jerky smelled sour and shouldn’t have flopped around like a disused fruit peel when he waved it around. ‘You don’t have to rely on spoilt scraps now,’ Drift reminded himself, and he cut the offending saddle bag away and let its spoilt, soppy contents spill over the body of the man he’d just killed. The other bag was more promising: a small, full coin purse, a canteen, and a few knives in fair condition. The saddle and bridle also looked new, and the horse itself would fetch at least a few gold pieces at a market.

“Aaaaaagh!” came a furious roar, and the rider with the brass teeth was galloping towards him wildly, swinging the stolen sword, his horse panting with every intake of hot desert air. Reflexively, Drift reached around to his back, brought around his primed crossbow, and loosed a bolt into the man’s exposed arm. The sword was dropped, and as the man rode past Drift reached up at the passing bolt and grabbed it. In one swift motion he ripped it from its bloody home and slipped it back into his quarrel. And as he bent down and retrieved Gasket’s sword he couldn’t help but smirk with satisfaction: there was something special about hearing the man hitting the ground behind him after being ripped from the saddle by his wound. It promptly disappeared when he wheeled around to face the foolish attacked.

“Tell me,” the dark-haired vagabond snarled back at the metal-toothed thief, letting anger boil his blood, “why you thought it might’ve been a good idea to steal my sword and expect to live.”

“Fuck you,” the thief snapped, blood oozing sluglishly into the red sand and dust, dying it crimson. “Everyone does what they have to to survive. You should know that, mercenary.” The sword-tip at the bandit’s neck pressed against the skin slowly and firmly, like Drift would slowly drive his repossessed sword into his windpipe and draw out the older man’s suffering, and he closed his eyes against the blinding sun and prayed to the God-Primes and Primus to bleed out quickly. **  
**

The cold steel lifted from his throat. Brass-teeth blearily stared at the now-impassive sellsword. “You’re right,” Drift hissed dispassionately. “We do.” With a firm foot, he kicked the bandit away from him reached for the fallen man’s upright horse. Whistling for Gasket, Drift tugged the stolen horses with him and away from the grisly battleground. It had been an intense few minutes, and he was done for the day. All he really wanted to do now was find a place to camp and sleep until the evening, when it’d be more friendly to travel.

Drift’s faithful mountain horse, possessing energy that the battle-spent Drift did not, rushed at where Brass-teeth was shakily standing up with a knife in his hands, and trampled the man without hesitation, screams and blood flying into the air from the impact of muscle and mighty  hooves. Sand crusted with the blood over Gasket’s forehooves as he rejoined Drift a safe distance away from the grisly scene. “You’re getting your own bath later,” Drift whispered severely into the horse’s ear when the grey-haired creature nudged his shoulder for attention and affection. Still, with reigns grasped in one hand, he fished in a belt pouch for a small, misshapen lump of sugar, an expensive treat, and offered it as a reward. Not a single grain remained in the palm of his glove after Gasket’s lips made a pass over the tanned hide.

A final scream in the distance warranted a look at how the three Autobots were fairing, and the retreating bandits (who’d lost their flimsy spines at the death of their leader, by the looks of it) revealed them to be a warrior, a medic (judging by the white armor and white horse), and a young child. Certainly not an army, but it was unusual for any Autobots to roam in such small numbers. Usually, their coming was foretold with war trumpets, mighty banners, and the thundering roll of thousands of feet and hooves.

Such small numbers...and easy pickings, if he really wanted. When they began making their way over to him slowly, to check the carnage, it was like a trio of mice walking towards the waiting jaws of a cat. **  
**

The leader, garbed in an immaculate red tunic with the Autobot’s Face of Prima’s outline  embroidered in white on his chest, accented in blue and in pristine condition (save for a few bloodstains), slid from his saddle with a hand gesture of peace. “Greetings, friend,” he rumbled in a voice like thunder. “I wanted to extend my thanks for your aid with those bandits-”

“By Micronus’ left buttock, look at this mess!” the medic screeched from his saddle, startling the poor mare with the misfortune of being his mount. “Blood! Blood everywhere!”

“Yes, there is.” Drift’s voice shifted to icy steel as he pointed his swords at the Autobot warrior that had been so foolish to dismount and approach a sellsword without either money or weapon. “And your bodies will join them, too, if you don’t give me a good reason to not slit all your throats and rob you blind like I did to them?”   


	3. An Offer of Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Autobots face their savior, who is threatening them with a sword, and an agreement is reached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by both anna1795 and Gumby1011. We appreciate all of your comments and kudos, and hope that you continue to enjoy the story as it progresses.

Wheelie sighed. It wasn’t a thing the minstrel did often, but to be honest Orion’s weariness with vacation complications had grown more than a bit contagious. “Always so hateful, out here no one’s grateful.”

“Not the time, Wheelie!” Ratchet barked, his dagger already drawn from it’s scabbard.

“I can tell you’re a better person than that.” Orion didn’t move a muscle, despite the obvious threat from the two sword points that were dangerously close to his person. “Not many people out here would give the time of day to passersby, let alone provide fire support, of all things.”

The sellsword glared up at Orion, his swords unmoving in his steel grip. Brown eyes narrowed in sunken sockets to lend a starving, haggard appearance to his fury. “I didn’t want your kid killed,” he hissed, the tip of one blade moving fractionally closer to Orion’s throat.

The older warrior just smiled softly at the young man. “And that’s all I really need to hear to know I’m right about you.” With one hand he gestured at the blade, careful to keep it from getting too close. “Come now, be rid of this. No need for that here, friend.”

“I’m _not_ your friend,” the armored vagabond snapped, baring his teeth...but he slowly lowered his own swords to hang stiffly at his sides; prepared to bring them back up at a moment’s notice, but not posing an offensive threat to the people that he had just rescued.

“Much obliged.” Orion bowed fluidly at his unlikely (and apparently unwilling) ally. “Make a habit out of saving hapless travellers, do you?” He swept a hand to the various dead bandits on the sands, felled by the stranger’s bolts or blades.

“It’s basic courtesy to let people live in peace.” The young man’s scowl deepened. “Not that I’d expect an Autobot to really understand.”

Ratchet couldn’t help but roll his eyes and put his hands in the air. “Oh Primus, he’s one of those-”

“Come now, Ratchet, no need to jump to conclusions.” Pax waved down the medic’s protests before turning to face the violent savior again. “And besides, in my experience, courtesies tend to fluctuate on more of an individual basis. Morality knows no latitude.”

“Says you.” The youth turned back to his mount and captured horses, lashing their leads to the horn of his well-worn saddle. His stocky grey horse snorted at the rider, shifting from one hoof to the other.

Orion gasped melodramatically at this. “Come now, some of my best-... I have good-... Alright, well some of my most familiar acquaintances are Northerners and former Decepticons, thank you kindly.” It likely didn’t help that Ratchet chose this precise time to loudly cough out a puff of dust.

“Your attempts at endearment are not as heartwarming as you think they are, old-timer.”

“Well, regardless…” Orion shrugged as he walked past the young man. “It’s about time my companions and I carried on with our travels. Wheelie? Ratchet?”

“Sounds like a plan to me.” Ratchet hopped up on his horse without a word more. “It’s been… well, thanks for the save, mister… uh…”

“He never introduced himself, old friend.” Orion chuckled and teased. “Your memory isn’t that far gone yet, don’t worry.” He looked back over at the young man. “But if it’s all the same to you, stranger, you’re welcome to ride with us. We’re going to be arriving at a small town named Dodge in a few hours’ ride, and to be perfectly honest, by the looks of things-” The red-clothed man looked at the spilled pouch of spoiled meat while trying to ignore the bleeding, pale body underneath the sour juices. “You seem to be in the market for some food, at the very least. Let’s refill those saddle bags of yours. It’s the least I can do in return, really.”

The stranger’s eyes flashed and shifted, and his brow furrowed in thought. It was with a preoccupied expression that their savior slid into his horse’s saddle. “No...not necessary,” he mumbled, pulling his _kurziyya_ up over his face and turning his cohort to the south, still in the direction of Dodge.

Orion wasn’t letting it go that easily. He wasn’t constantly cursed out for his stubbornness (loudly and openly by his subordinates, no less) for nothing. “It’s no trouble to us at all,” the veteran insisted, offering an open hand to the stranger. “We could do with some protection from any other bandits that would want to ambush us.”

“Trust me,” the youth retorted with a snap, shoving the open hand aside, “anybody with two working eyes that passes this way will think twice before trying to rob anyone in this desert for awhile.” Underneath him, his stocky, silver-maned horse blew out his lips and reared his head up to bump against his rider’s hand. To Orion’s amazement, the two immediately descended into a quiet conversation, as if no one else was there.

“No, I don’t need to restock.”

A buzzing of hairy lips.

“We’ve got enough water.”

A snort.

“No, Gasket, we don’t have to go with them. They’re _Autobots_ \- hey!” The horse tried to reach around and nip his knees. “Stop that, I’m not being rude- watch it!” Another flash of teeth.

‘ _Most interesting_ ,’ Orion mused, keeping his face non-judgmental at the visible argument between man and horse. ‘ _Does he have some Mentalist abilities that permit him to speak to animals? I don’t feel anything coming from him that would suggest that, though..._ ’

“So, after being...verbally castigated by my horse, I guess,” the masked rider ground out from gritted teeth that were covered by the cloth over his nose and mouth, “it’s been _suggested_ that I accompany you to Dodge, and that’s as far as we’re going together.” Moving of his own accord, the horse named Gasket took two steps forward and bumped his head against Orion’s frozen hand, still upraised. The older man stroked the small white star between the horse’s honest brown eyes without interference from neither rider nor beast.

Internally, Orion was shocked at the sheer mental presence coming from the animal, which mentally ‘bumped’ against his own Primus-given abilities; age, energy, curiosity, and nigh-human wisdom that seemed to defy sheer animal instinct. Certainly, some animals were known to be remarkable with their own mental presence and bonded to certain humans; by the God-Primes’ will, he even had a team of message-hawk trainers (all five of them, brothers) back in Iacon that helped train the best message-raptors through that skill; in addition, the long-absent Decepticon advisor, Soundwave was notorious for having a team of mind-linked animal spies and messengers that he kept close to him when they weren’t out on missions. Specifically what came to mind, though, was that there were some Northerner and Plainsmen tribes that had selectively bred their horses for intelligence, rather than endurance or speed, and who guarded their breeding practices with a fierce, violent jealousy. Given how this stranger had voiced his sentiments about the Autobot Army, it was safe to assume that this rider and his horse were of Northern blood.

“We’d be delighted for your company,” Orion spoke to both horse and horseman with sincerity, even with Ratchet making a disbelieving squawk in the background. “This is a charming horse that you have here, mister…”

“Drift.”

“Interesting name.”

“It’s my own,” Drift shrugged his armor-padded shoulders, checking that the leads to the other two horses were secured to his saddle-horn. “Now, if we’re riding together, I’m riding at the back.”

“If you like.” Orion lifted his hand from the mountain horse and slid into his own thoroughbred’s saddle smoothly. “We will not force you.”

“If he’s riding at the back,” Ratchet said purposefully as he trotted up on his white horse, the universal sign of a medic and Healer, “then I think Wheelie should ride up in front with you, Orion.”

Drift’s eyes immediately blazed from behind the white fabric over most of his face. The carried insinuation and insult apparently did not sit well with him (an obvious, if optimistic, understatement). “I’m not some perverted monster, Healer,” Drift growled, glaring down the better-armored, robust blonde. “I just saved his life.”

    “I didn’t say that you were,” Ratchet retorted hotly.

    “You were thinking it-”

    “Enough! Please.” Orion brought himself between the two of them on his roan horse. “We should be trying our best to get along. There’s already been enough bloodshed here for the day.”

    “If you are so worried about an affront,” Wheelie piped up unexpectedly and in rhyme, “why not have Ratchet ride up in the front?”

    “That sounds like a fine idea, Wheelie,” Pax nodded as he took up position. Rachet on the other hand just rolled his eyes before pulling up ahead, while Drift growled before slinking to the back of the caravan. The winds howled on as the riders trudged up along the road, sounding as if they were making to play notes on the sheer tension strung through the air around the party. And to be honest, they weren’t all that far off to try.

After a few minutes of tense silence, Wheelie reached into one of his pockets and retrieved a small, silver-decorated pitch pipe. A single, drawn out note from the pipe drew Ratchet and Drift’s attention. They likely discovered the only thing that they’d ever agree on moments later, when Wheelie took a deep breath and they both snarled “Stop that.”

* * *

As it passed, the two hour’s ride to the desert settlement of Dodge proved dreadfully dull and horrendously hot. Really, all that happened was the occasional hollered argument between Ratchet and Drift, their constant shutting down of poor Wheelie’s attempts to amuse himself, and, of course, Orion’s seemingly unending supply of sighs. Which is why the entire caravan sped up without so much as a word uttered between them when they saw a red, earthen wall in the distance.

As far as the town of Dodge itself was concerned, it was typical of Simfur’s desert towns. Relatively small, it was surrounded by a sizable adobe wall formed from the very sand and clay that the town had been built upon, hollowed out and with narrow slits to allow archers a protected place to fire arrows from at belligerents. The only sign that Dodge was, in fact, a Southerner-aligned village was the massive (and very faded) Autobot emblem painted on the wooden gate of the town. It was a very-obviously imported door; the wood had cracked and faded in it’s new home, albeit not in any way badly enough to weaken it. The iron bands binding it together saw to that well enough. Still, when Rachet stopped the caravan in front of the gate, it took some convincing on the guard’s part before the small viewing slat on the gate finally creaked open, a pair of beady eyes with the noseguard of a basic helm between them staring out. “State your business,” a gruff voice called out.

“My caravan and I wish to enter the city.” Ratchet was sure to stick out his chest somewhat so the Autobot badge on his chestplate was visible. “We need a place to spend the night, and some food’d be nice.”

“Oh?” The eyes shifted as he observed the rest of the caravan. They caught on badgeless Drift for a moment before narrowing, but ultimately the slat slid shut just as the words “open the gate” were uttered. With a rattling of chains, the squeaking of heavy steel hinges and the creaking of that ancient gate, it ultimately swung open, allowing the caravan passage into the town. “Welcome to Dodge, travelers.” The guard bowed stiffly, eyes glancing up at Drift when he was sure none were looking at him. “Enjoy your stay, and don’t cause any trouble.”

“I’m sure we won’t, good sir.” Orion smiled down at the man as they rode past. “Would you be so kind as to point us the town stables?”

The guard pointed down the street with the pike he held in one hand. “You’re just going to want to go straight that way, they’ll be just on the near edge of town square.”

“Thank you.”

Without so much as a word, Drift rode around the rest of the caravan, the two ill-gotten horses trailing behind him on their ropes.

“And just where do you think _you’re_ goin’, kid?” Ratchet barked after him. “Don’t think we’re gonna be payin’ for the stable space for those!”

“Oh, I know better than to expect that from you,” Drift huffed over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I plan on selling them. They’re good horses.” The sellsword paused for a moment, deep in thought, his eyes reflective. “Couldn’t afford to feed them anyways.” Without so much as a word more, the young vagabond took off down the road at a brisk trot, almost bowling over a man who’d been pushing along a cart of cabbages as he did so and hurriedly apologizing as he passed.

As the merchant shouted after the boy about the potential harm to his precious produce, Pax couldn’t help but smile. “Such a nice boy.”

Ratchet on the other hand just rolled his eyes and started riding towards the stables at a brisk trot. “Pax, if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you were simple.”

“There can be virtue in simplicity,” Orion intoned with a respectful solemnity. “It helps one see things for what they are instead of what we expect. And besides, you’re too quick to judge the boy.”

“Yeah. Too quick to judge the guy who appeared out of nowhere, shot and stabbed a bunch of guys, went through their pockets, and took their horses. Sure. Whatever you say.” Ratchet tossed a critical glance back at Pax. “Probably a Northerner, with an introduction like that.”

Orion shrugged. And it was with profound matter-of-factness that he answered. “Oh, he’s almost _certainly_ a Northerner.”

Ratchet immediately gagged on absolutely nothing before turning his horse around and getting within a foot of the caravan leader before whispering “ _What_? And you brought him in _here_?”

“Of course.” Orion continued at a steady pace towards the stables. “We do still owe him our lives, after all.” Without another word, Orion rode into the stable entrance. “We’ll discuss this once we’ve settled in.”

* * *

It didn’t take long for the travellers to decide on their choice of inn. And to be perfectly honest, this was simply because there was all of one Inn in the entire town. Amusingly enough, the inn also happened to be named the Last Resort. Go figure. As soon as the three Autobots were up the stairs and into their simple room (with a guaranteed hot dinner from the innkeeper and “womanly entertainment for the adults”, should they so desire), the door was closed and Wheelie claimed the straw bed closest to the window with a whoop of glee. Ratchet was not nearly in so high of spirits.

“ _I’m sure we won’t, good sir_ ,” Ratchet grumbled as he dropped his rucksack to the floor. “No, I’m sure we won’t cause any trouble, especially not the goddamned _Northerner_ we brought to town!”

“Now Ratchet, just calm down.” Orion raised his arms. “The situation hardly warrants your reaction.”

“Oh, I think it does!” If it were possible to scream while whispering, Ratchet was doing so right now. “And exactly what in the five hells do you think is going to happen when word gets out that we brought a Northerner into an Autobot town? Into Autobot territory?!”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“But you don’t know that, Optimus!” Ratchet hissed. “For all we know, Drift is somewhere out there, right now, sending a courier falcon to some encampment of rogue Decepticons or something! Our people trust their Prime to keep that from happening.”

Orion winced at the name used. That said, the old medic was simply too wound up to be corrected, so the red clad warrior simply wandered over to one of the room’s windows and put a hand to his chin. “Whyever is the name Gasket so familiar?”

Ratchet took a deep breath to carry out the next wave of his verbal assault.“BEC-... Erm… Wait, what?”

“The horse’s name. Drift’s horse, that is.” Orion didn’t even glance to the medic as he spoke. “It’s so vexingly familiar, yet I can’t place quite where from. I think… He was someone important, in the North. Politically, that is.” A quick turn, and he was leaning back against the wall, stroking his goatee. “Does any of this ring a bell to you?”

“Well… No, no it doesn’t.” Ratchet admitted. “You know I barely follow our own politics, much less those of the Decepticons. Not much point. Not much to be done about them.”

“Perhaps that may be.” Orion nodded. “But that doesn’t help explain where that horse got his name.” Or where Drift got that horse, for that matter. One can’t just steal or force the obedience of a horse that mentally self-aware. “Either way…” the warrior walked over to Ratchet and with a warm smile but a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about Drift. I’m positivehe won’t be any trouble. And you know I’m a great judge of character.”

It took a few seconds for Ratchet’s face to contort into what could only be described as a look. “Oh yeah. You’re an amazing judge of character,” the medic deadpanned. “Because when it comes to placing only the most reasonable amount of faith in people you are truly un. Fucking. Rivaled.”

“Ratchet, you’re tired and I’m tired,” Orion concluded the conversation softly, gently, yet with a firm finality, nodding over towards Wheelie’s bed, where the young minstrel had promptly passed out in the midst of Ratchet’s worrying. “We should take Wheelie’s example and get some rest. Perhaps we’ll be able to wake up before the sun and get in some more travelling before the heat of the day tomorrow. Please, let’s retire.”

“I-” For a moment, Ratchet was sorely tempted to continue arguing until he could sway his superior, but his Prime, his living god (if you believed in such things) was as stubborn and immovable as a mountain when he put his mind to it. He couldn’t deny that this Embodiment of Primus’ Will (again, if you believed in such things) held the mental abilities to judge a character. He’d seen two fairly convincing fakers with the same title before, though. “You’re right, Orion,” the medic sighed, unbuckling the leather straps to his armor and feeling the weight of the war being shrugged from his shoulders as well. It was so blasted hot, even in the coolness of the adobe inn, so he shrugged off his tunic, too.

Orion had done the same and beckoned to the one remaining bed. “Would you prefer to be alone, my friend?” he offered quietly and with his warmest smile. “I can sleep on the floor.” Not even Ratchet could resist that friendly, comforting smile, and he pushed himself into his Prime’s arms with a huff.

“You’re impossible, and don’t you dare.” They lay down on the straw bed together, Orion’s back to the wall and Ratchet staring at his scarred chest. The Prime tucked the medic’s head under his chin.

“No, I’m a cuddler,” Orion quipped back with a deep chuckle, hugging his long-time friend close and chastely. Ratchet returned the embrace with a squeeze before relaxing himself, blinking tiredly. "At least, that's what I tell Prowl."

“At this point, is there a difference with you?” he mumbled to a chuff of laughter. Still, Ratchet couldn’t deny that the tension of his aching muscles seemed to miraculously melt away along with his consciousness as the two of them, godly Prime and humble medic, fell asleep and escaped the desert’s repressive heat.


	4. Halfer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift and the Autobots settle into Dodge for the night and they all get a great night's sleep. Really. I promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by anna1795. We appreciate all of your comments and kudos, and hope that you continue to enjoy the story as it progresses.

“Treat them well,” Drift added as a final thought to the town guard who had just bought the two bandit horses (for a decent sum of money, if the significant added weight was anything to go by). “Please.”

“Don’t worry,” the helmed guard responded in a gruff (typical of the desert), yet kind voice. “They’re good stock. We’ll probably keep them for tracking or as relief horses for army messengers when they pass through here. Thank you for getting rid of those bandits for us, by the by.”

Ignoring the twist in his gut at the mention of the Autobot Army, Drift nodded his own thanks and watched the two horses being walked off with a sense of relief. Honestly, they deserved an easier, less threatening lifestyle than what he had to offer, let alone that troupe of bandits. Feeling at his belt for his resupplied money pouch, Drift shifted it to his front (to deter the inevitable pick-pockets), drew his crimson burnoose closer to his person, and shuffled back through the busy market square of Dodge. People in brighter, less ragged clothes passed by him without another glance (save for a few that heard the infrequent clink of sword scabbards against boot buckles), and shop owners called out from their stalls, hawking their wares and pitching them to potential customers. If it hadn’t been so disgustingly hot and dusty in the late afternoon sun, Drift might’ve mistaken this place for a Northern village.

_‘Gasket might’ve liked it here,’_ the sellsword thought to himself, watching a customer bargain and argue at a stall over the stolen saddle and tack that he had just sold the shopkeeper. _‘He always liked to meet new people, see new places.’_ With a grim smile, he reminisced about kinder times, long ago in his lifespan. _‘Then again, he liked many different things, the crazy buzzard.’_

“Hey, you crazy buzzard,” Drift mumbled to a snorting Gasket, the horse loosely tied at the town stables and protected by the shade. “Scavenge anything for yourself recently?” The mountain horse shuffled and snorted, buffeting his head against an open, gloved palm. The tanned leather came up a dusty red. Reaching into one of his new (read ‘requisitioned’) saddlebags, he pulled out one of the nicest things that he legitimately owned: a polished mahogany comb, the handle carved with the likeness of a horse’s flowing mane. Gently, he ran the comb through the tangled and gnarled grey mane, patiently untangling the inevitable knots from days of infrequent grooming. The two friends settled into a comfortable silence, Gasket providing a solid support for Drift while his rider brought the horse’s mane to a lustrous, untangled shine. Unconsciously, their breathing evened into a synchronized, peaceful harmony.

“Hey,” a new voice barked, startling both Drift and horse out of their trances. It was the guard from the gate when he’d entered in behind those Autobots. A calming hand on his neck stopped Gasket’s agitated shuffling, but the horse could feel the tenseness in Drift’s palm anyways. “You’re new here.”

Oh, it was so tempting to respond with something insulting, but he was only here for one day, if he was lucky. No need to antagonize the locals, especially if any of them hired him on for something. “Yeah,” Drift grunted in reply, guardedly. “What of it?”

“Don’t you cause any trouble now,” the guard warned gruffly, narrowing his eyes. “We’ve been at peace here for years, besides those bandits. Don’t want any new folk coming in and fucking that all up.”

“I already said that I wouldn’t,” the tan young man insisted.

“Just making sure, sir. It’s nothing personal,” the guard shrugged his pike over to the other shoulder. “Gotta make sure that the _unnatural_ types know their place.” He gave his body a slow, very obvious once-over. The hairs on the back of Drift’s concealed neck stood up on end in suspicion. “You’re awfully slight for someone who took on some bandits.”

“My parents were skinny folk,” Drift replied smoothly. _‘As far as he needs to be concerned.’_ Raising another eyebrow, the nosy guard continued on his rounds or to his break. He released a deep breath and ran a glove through mussy, dirty hair. _‘Pay my respects, dinner, then I’m out of here,’_ the sellsword outlined mentally, checking Gasket’s lead to make sure that it was secure before winding his way through the main boulevard to the tallest, most ornate building in Dodge; with its signature golden gong, silver chimes, and thirteen bronze bells strung from sturdy rope between two minarets, topped with wrought-iron Hands of Primus. _‘If I’m lucky, that guy was the only Naturalist here.’_

Those hopes were quickly dashed with the bronze plaque posted on one of the sandstone columns for the village Parthenon:

 

_By the Grace of Almighty Primus_

_By the Will and Order of Nature_

_We Welcome the Pure of Spirit_

 

_‘Fuck me with the Fallen’s Sword,’_ Drift groaned internally, hesitating at the carving-embossed gates of the Temple to the God-Primes, _‘it IS a Naturalist village.’_

Naturalism...the natural enemy of Decepticonism and pragmatism; the philosophy that had spurred the Northern Unification and Uprising in the first place. For anyone that didn’t fall into their definition of ‘naturally pure of spirit’ and ‘beholden to the will of Nature’, Naturalism was a torturous nightmare that either ended in a Mind Fix or a public execution.

Entering the cool, dim interior only provided more evidence for Drift’s personal confirmation. At the center of the perfectly square cathedral, the golden Face of Primus the Life-Giver was inlaid front and center, surrounded by His other Four Faces: Adaptus, the Change-Giver; Epistemus, the Knowledge-Giver; Solomus, the Wisdom-Giver; and Mortilus, the Death-Giver (or, if you believed the pacified Naturalist version, the ‘Peace-Bringer’). Below the Five Faces, the God-Prime Prima shone in white marble glory, his simple helm adorned with the bronze halo of a God-Prime and his weapon sheathed. Behind the altar, holding basins of burning oil, stood two Brothers of the Primal Order, their white hoods obscuring their bald, bearded faces.

To both sides of the chancel, along the walls of the nave, five more statues stood in their own alcoves, with small votive candles in colored glass jars. An attendant Brother or Sister of their respective order stood as a silent sentry below the torches illuminating their respective idol, each clergyman in a different colored robe. There were some people who had come to pray or seek guidance from the monks (or just to talk; monks were people too, after all, so they could get bored). The brightest-lit alcove was nearest the door, with the shrouded carving of the current Living God-Prime, the Thirteenth, whose face wouldn’t be revealed until his death or he formally revealed himself in a Temple (too confusing and unnecessary, in Drift’s unspoken opinion). Standing under the domed glass ceiling of the Primal Parthenon, he dipped his hand into the carved basin of tepid water and drew a single line across his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, and dashed two tear-tracks from the corners of his eyes. Drift clasped his hands together into a closed, two-handed fist under his chin and dipped his upper body to the Five Faces, sneaking a glance behind him to confirm his suspicion about the two God-Primes absent from the walls closest to the Altar.

Yes, there they were: the two Primes deemed least worthy of their position in the Cybertronian Pantheon, in the eyes of the Naturalists. Flanking the door leading from the antechamber, Solus Prime and Megatronus Prime stood in repose, faces downcast in submission to their ‘betters’. Drift’s patron-God was carved into an unlit alcove, his fierce features muted by the darkness and a less-defined carving; very likely, the Naturalist Council of the region had not deemed a replacement statue to be worthy of the finer details afforded to the other God-Primes and to Primus, even with Megatronus still considered a Child of the Gods when the Naturalists had come to power. At least the armor and cloak were the same, as well as sword He held clasped in His two hands. Megatronus had even been afforded a bronze halo of his own.

Solus Prime’s appearance, though, was the most maddening, disrespectful, and disappointing, and it took all of Drift’s internal conviction to stop himself from screaming at the injustice afforded to the Fallen’s beloved Consort, for fear of startling the solitary nun attending Her idol. Covered in a shapeless pink fabric, the Prime of Creativity and Ingenuity, Protector of Mothers and Children, stood with flowers in one hand and a shapeless bundle in Her other arm, supposedly a babe at Her breast (Drift could only assume, as the bundle’s head was also covered by a cloth to disguise its identity and action). There was no Forge in an armored hand, no sense of fierce protectiveness that would’ve radiated from any statue of Solus Prime in any temple in the North; just a demure, placid smile from flat, colorless eyes, and no halo of Her own to mark Her divinity. Out of morbid curiosity, Drift moved forward to read the Creed of Solus from its bronze plaque, underneath the alcove:

 

_As Primus and Nature willed it,_

_our most blessed Mother_

_did submit to Her Brothers with Grace._

_To Primus, we submit ourselves to your Will;_

_men to the Will of Primus, women to the Will of men._

 

If you asked any person in the North to read that bullshit, Drift would’ve been proud to say that they’d have a similar reaction: gagging and outright disgust. He didn’t try to keep much memorabilia from the North (incriminating evidence and all that), but an aged, dog-eared copy of From Peace, which he kept in his saddlebag, was often flipped open to on cold, lonely nights so that he could read some of the most striking of Galvatron’s words:

   

_“Any woman that refuses to think for herself, who blindly and willingly submits to the will and desires of her male peers, is little beyond chattle. A woman is like a man; they must decide their own fate, not have it dictated by those who think themselves superior, or by absent God-Primes from the ages past. Men may fight to protect their homes and lands, but a woman’s ferocity cannot be matched when her children, our future, are threatened by greed and violence.”_

 

They were some of Drift’s favorite words from the lost Lord of the Decepticons.

No, this Solus Prime did not deserve his worship or his plea for guidance. Drift turned back to the alcove of Megatronus, absent of any candlelight offered by worshippers. The broad shoulders of the attending Brother of the Fallen Order turned in his direction, a breath hissing out from under the ragged black cloak. The monk made no remark while Drift lit a small twig, in the nearby torch and brought it to the wick of one of the votive candles. The candle flickered in its smoky gray glass, and Drift sank to the floor in kneeling prayer to the severe-looking, much maligned Guardian of Wanderers and the Lost.

_‘Almighty Megatronus, praise be and please heed my prayer. I’ve been travelling for months now, and I still feel so lost. I try my best to help anybody that needs or wants it, to remember Gasket and my brothers and sisters, to forget what I left behind, and it still feels like people will only see me as a monster, an abomination. I’m lucky that I haven’t been killed so far, I guess. If You can hear me, please help me find someplace where I can belong. Someplace where I won’t be seen as a monster or a traitor or a murderer would be nice. Oh, and I still think that You can go ahead and throw a couple of sandstorms or floods at these Naturalists. Honestly, their depiction of You makes less than no sense, the worthless bigots. In the name of Your Might and Grace, the Unity of the Thirteen, and the Guiding Hand of Primus, I worship Your name. Praise be.’_

Drift finished his silent prayer and bowed his head to the idol in finality. It had been so long since he’d actually prayed to Megatronus, the lengthiness unsettled him. He shouldn’t be that confused or need _that much_ guidance.

“You must be a traveller,” a bass voice whispered in the near-silence of the Parthenon. The gritty walls kept the sound muted, and Drift had to lean in close to hear the Brother’s words. “Almost no one in this village remembers the Fallen One.”

“That’s an honest shame,” Drift confided, his body and tone tense and guarded, just in case. You never knew who could be ally or enemy, especially when it came to the clergy of a Naturalist town. “Every God should be remembered as they’re supposed to be.”

“A truth, coming from one who is used to lies and concealment,” the monk chuckled, startling the young man. “Fear not, young man, for I mean no harm to your body or soul. Come; my shift is done for the day, and I have bread and stew to spare. A listening ear, as well, should you need it.”

One did not refuse the invitation of a Brother if they valued their soul, and the promise of free food was so tantalizing...Drift nodded and followed this mysterious Fallen Brother into a v vestry and into the cloisters behind the temple. A silent, serene garden of bare, crooked wood and yucca plants felt...oddly pacifying in its simplicity and homage to the living in the desert. The stone feature in the center added a certain symmetry to the garden. Cowled monks in different colors shuffled in a trance-state, attempting to channel the wisdom and teachings of their respective God-Prime, but Drift and his guide strode past them without comment or notice.

“You’re staying in the visitor’s wing, Brother?” Drift asked with innocent curiosity, surveying the small, plain quarters that the monk took up residence in. A deep, rumbling chuckle from the Brother was his response while they both divested themselves of their robes (and Drift of his swords).

“You may call me Brother Omega, if you wish. I also respond to just Omega.” Brother Omega, a heavyset man with a shining bald head and a greying black beard to accent his cocoa-brown skin, gestured to the stool opposite his own at the small table and began tearing the three flat loaves into six pieces for the two of them. A plate of goat meat in a brown stew, complete with cabbage and onion chunks, rounded out the simple, hearty meal. Spoonful after spoonful disappeared down Drift’s throat, while the monk couldn’t help but laugh at his dinner companion’s eagerness.

“In answer to your question, traveler, we share something in common. There are few in Simfur or its neighbors who answer to the Call of the Fallen, so I travel and spend some time at each temple that I can. Weeks, months, days, it does not matter.” Omega offered a toothy, honest grin to the younger, paler man. “Having even one worshipper come to pay respect to the Guardian of the Wanderers makes my voyage to Dodge a worthwhile venture.”

“I was raised to see every God as equal to each other.” That was certainly the truth; Gasket’s gentle teachings about reading and the harsher Decepticon written doctrine emphasized the need for an equality among people, regardless of gender.

“You were upset by Solus’ depiction and rewritten Creed, I imagine?” the monk asked the sellsword softly, taking a bite from his unleavened bread. “I saw how you looked at her statue in the chapel. You may answer honestly. I’ve done enough travelling through both the North and South to know of the differences in religious teachings. What you want to say about the views of the Southern Naturalists will not leave this room or my confidence.”

The invitation to speak freely was so inviting, but it could so easily be a trap. Drift shoved a handful of flatbread into his mouth and chewed sullenly and purposefully, mashing the baked dough into a pulp with his back teeth. The patient eyes of the monk spurred him on, though. “People are people. Men and women have arms, legs, muscles, bones, organs. They all have brains, hair, eyes, everything that makes us human. What should it matter what they do biologically; they can build, farm, cook, and tend to the house and farm equally. Why is it so different down here?!” He didn’t expect an answer, and shoved more food into his mouth to keep himself from venting too much and saying something to offend the monk.

Brother Omega continued that calm, patient smile. “I ask myself that question often as I travel. I have been to the North, and I have guided people to the North. The free-spirited, the stubborn, the misfits who were driven away because they were seen as threats to their towns and cities. They made their way to a hard life in the North, but they did so for freedom. Southern existence, would you say that it is easier?”

“They have it so _cushy_ and _comfortable_ down here!” Drift complained, nearly smacking his face into the table. “They’ll never have to worry about year-round snow, or failing harvests, or invasion from another kingdom just because they’re bored. And they’re just...throwing it away for everyone who they think isn’t perfect!” He glared down at the clay plate that held the remains of his meal: a few scrapings of meat, gristle, and gravy.

“Some people will willingly give up a life of personal freedoms and hardship if it eases their day. You come from a land where life is hard, but everybody could be who or what they wanted so long as they survive.” The smile morphed into a frown, but more inquisitive than displeased. “And yet, with who you are, why would you abandon the kingdoms that would let you live as you do, and be down here where they would gladly see you killed in order to restore their sense of normalcy?”

Drift sprayed water from his mouth in a torrent, sending droplets anywhere in his spit take. No, there was absolutely _no_ way that this monk could know his biggest secret. No way in the hells-

“I have seen your troubles and concerns,” Omega explained, calmly wiping his water-doused face with a wide sleeve of his tunic. “Your personal distaste for the Naturalist interpretation of Solus gave it away.”

Drift shakily got to his feet, his knees trembling in shock and terror. “You…” he choked, pointing a finger at Omega. “You...you’re a-”

“A Mentalist? One who can see what you were and who you are now?” The monk opened his palms consolingly. “Peace, my child. Megatronus watches over all wanderers and lost folk. I am his shepherd, here to guide them to peace.”

Drift was having none of it. Breathing heavily, he reached behind him to try and grab his sword. “I’ve seen what you Southerners think is ‘peace’,” he spat, his other hand clutching his old tunic at the breast. “I’m not gonna be fooled by someone who claims that they can ‘fix’ me.” _‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’_ he reassured himself feverishly, unable to find his sword. _‘I’ll kill him if he says that there is.’_

“There is nothing to fix,” Omega was unmoved by the agitated warrior, pouring a cup of water for himself. “Well, I do not think so. Everyone else who is native to this village might, but they’re confused and frightened by the unknown. These days, though, Dodge is an exception. There are safe havens now for you, to live in peace and a good distance away from the North.”

“No place is ever safe.”

“Remain on your guard, and you’ll find that there are places safer than others.” Reaching to his table, Brother Omega brought around a bottle of ink and a piece of parchment. “If not as a permanent settlement, then I can at least provide you with safe passage into two nearby cities. The Order of the Fallen know me there, and they’ll give you safe housing and protection. They can help you find a better paying, more...stable job.”  

“I never asked for your help,” Drift spat, eyeing the parchment with suspicion as the quill moved skillfully over its expanse.

“You still need it. There is no shame in asking, my child.” Finished with his note, Omega sealed the scroll with a wax Sigil of the Fallen, then drew out an older, folded piece of parchment and handed both to Drift. “Here is my note, and map for the lands east of here. Praxus is a strict kingdom, but they are welcoming to anyone who brings in skills and is willing to follow their laws. I personally would recommend Nova Cronum, however. Nobody will bother you about your past if you do not directly invite them to ask, and there are many former Decepticons who have settled there.” Drift took the offered parchments with some hesitance, and Omega chuckled heartily. “Given that Nova Cronum houses the regional Citadel, I would not be surprised that Lord Trion and his Guardian wanted to bring in some cultural difference for educating future Trine members.”

Drift squeezed the parchments in his hand with anxiety. A Citadel? The training ground for future Guardians and Consorts, to be paired off and auctioned off to Lords and Ladies for marriage? Gag him. He’d find somewhere else that’d suit him. Still...the map and a letter of passage could prove useful, at least until he could find someplace on his own to settle down. “Thank you, Brother Omega,” Drift sighed, remembering his manners and offering a polite bow to the monk before sliding on his _burnoose_ again and slinging his swords around his waist.

“May the Fallen guard you well on your travels, young man,” Brother Omega intoned with a kindly smile. “Oh, and Drift?” he called before the man could slink away. “Since your water skin is empty, I recommend going to the _Last Resort’s_ pub and having them refill it for a silver piece. It’s expensive, but the water is fresh.”

Nodding his thanks, Drift was halfway back through the main temple complex before realizing that he’d never actually introduced himself.

* * *

_“Two silver?_ I was told just one!”

“Water’s scarce in the desert, kid! What did you expect?” the barkeep barked back at the growling Drift, taking his two waterskins away to be filled in the well-guarded well in the back room. “That’s four silvers! Pay the wench!” With a snarl, Drift dug in into his coin purse for some silver coins to pay the pub wench: a well endowed, humble woman with voluptuous curls and even more accentuated curves. Searching the small leather pouch, though, resulted in golds and coppers, but no silvers. “Damn, I’ll be back in a moment,” he hissed to the woman, who ducked her head bashfully as a bar attendee slipped his hand behind her back for a ‘sample’ of her wares. In disgust, Drift slunk out of the bar with as much care as he could muster.

The place was packed for the evening. Drinkers, gamblers, and brawlers all sat at their place in the cramped pub, while wenches and whores skirted through the throng to entice potential customers for the evening. Gaudy colors and guffaws of laughter and insult blended together into a headache-inducing mess that Drift wanted no part of. He could make his way in a fight any day, piss drunk or not, but he had no interest in gamblers or whores. He just wanted water and out of this town as soon as possible.

“Easy, easy,” Drift whispered to an uncomfortable Gasket. The horse was already saddled up, with saddlebags full of new supplies, but he snorted and tugged at the reins still knotted to the post of the stable. “I’m just grabbing some water, and then we can leave.”

The saddlebags produced no spare silver coins, though, much to his disgruntlement. The bandits that he’d robbed had been mostly carrying coppers, but nobody in the smaller villages took coppers to replace silver coins. Hissing in annoyance, Drift’s eyes caught the contented snoozing of the thoroughbred in the stall over, the one that belonged to that one Autobot, Orion. The gelding’s saddle bags had been hung from a spike on the back wall, well hidden by the horse’s girth and if you weren’t specifically looking. It was so tempting and so easy…

_‘It’s just four silvers,’_ Drift told himself as he slid a hand under the flap of the saddlebag and blindly groped for a money purse. _‘I’ll bring it right back. It’s a fee, anyways...for killing those bandits and saving his kid, yeah.’_ Fingers brushed past a sample of soft leather, and he triumphantly extracted the weighted purse from the bag. It was a nice purse; pale lamb-skin, tied at the top with leather and holding a tag with the Autobot sigil stamped in bronze. It was so nice, and there was a twist in his gut at the thought of robbing a man of a few coins, someone who’d been nothing but polite and kind to a completely unknown, dangerous stranger...but the need for water trumped morality right now, and he slid the purse into his sleeve tactfully. Nobody turned their heads to watch him slide back into the pub, and he payed the fee for the water skins with a steady hand and an unshaken conscience. Good, the ordeal was over. Water in hand, he turned back towards the entryway.

“Hello there,” a sultry voice purred in his ear, and Drift nearly launched himself into the air in his shock. A mass of dirty blonde curls and bountiful breasts almost shoved themselves into his face when he turned around. Hazel eyes blinked flirtatiously under copious amounts of eye coloring and black ochre. “A handsome stranger shouldn’t be all alone on a lovely night like this, should he?”

No, he had absolutely NO time for this right now. “Sorry, I’m in a rush,” Drift barked, trying to peel away from the clingy prostitute, who was leaning on his arm with the faint air of desperation. “Go find someone else.”

“Oh, but why would I find someone else when I have you?” his stalker pleaded with the saddest attempt at puppy-dog eyes that he had ever seen. “Someone so strong...and suave...I like a man who plays hard to get.” Painted fingernails trailed an unwanted path down his sternum and through the middle of his chest.

No, this was absolutely not okay. If she kept fingering him like this, the whore was guaranteed to find something that she shouldn’t. “Not interested,” Drift snarled, grabbing her by the chin to emphasize the point before shoving her away and making a desperate attempt for the door. Hands and arms wrapped around his middle and wrenched his head backwards to be pillowed in that voluptuous, unwanted chest.

“Please, I’ll be good for you,” the prostitute pleaded breathily in his obviously uninterested ear, but Drift was powerless to stop her hands when they slapped playfully across his front, obviously trying to elicit some reaction from a man’s turgid member.

It could only have been the shock of the whore’s lifetime when manicured nails slid past the absent space where a man’s tackle would be, and instead found the cool, dry slit of a biological woman. In fact, she let the entire pub know of that shock in the second that it took for her to register who exactly was in her arms, by way of a piercing, deafening screech right next to Drift’s ear.

**“HALFER-”**

Drift was one hundred percent done at that point with staying in Dodge. The Naturalism, the underlying sense of being unwanted and unacceptable to these prim and proper desert peasants, it had all accumulated into a miasma of resentment and exhaustion that burst forth in a torrent. Just as every head whipped around in shock and rage to stare at them, he elbowed the buxom blonde in the nose and shouldered his way past a couple that edged away from him faster than if he was a plague-bringer. The jeering and mobbing started at only a handful of steps from the door.

“Grab the bitch!”

“Abomination!”

“Freak!”

“Kill the Halfer!”

“KILL THE HALFER!”

An angry patron swung a garden hoe up to connect with Drift’s head, but the young man forcefully and angrily wrenched it from its wielder’s grip before swinging the pole around and cracking it in two over the cabbage farmer’s head. Something firm and empty struck the back of his head and cracked into pieces; someone had chucked their clay drinking mug at him in their attempt to drive him out or subdue him so that the mob could kill him in their frenzy. The sellsword’s head pulsed, and heat concentrated at the impact point. “Leave me alone!” he screamed at his pursuers, kicking and punching to drive away the mob. “Stop it! I’ll kill you!” Normally, he would not have meant that last threat; however, the idea that over three dozen people were willing to kill him right now made the threat even more appealing, if it could guarantee his survival.  

“Die, you unnatural beast!” Drift barely parried the strike from the scimitar with his own blade in time and cracked the hilt of his sword over its owner’s forehead. He was in a cramped space, the entire pub wanted to kill him, and there was no room to use his longswords with any real effect. Backing out the door, Drift sent off a shrill whistle into the courtyard.

_*CRACK*_ With the splintering of dry, aged wood that had barricaded him into the town stables, hooves raced towards him from behind, followed by the whinny of a very upset Gasket. Sheathing his unsecured sword. Drift raced to meet up with Gasket and hauled himself into the saddle, barely escaping a thrust from a pike that was aimed under his ribcage. Rocks, stones, and other assorted projectiles connected with his back from the Dodge citizens that finally caught on to his rapid retreat from the prejudiced town. The Northerners, mountain horse and disgraced rider, raced for the gate to Dodge and were met with no resistance from the solitary guard at his post when they rushed past, pursued by the angry lynch mob.

“We hope you die!”

“Die, you unfuckable bitch!”

“If you ever come back, we’ll kill you!”

“Damn you to the Hells, you monster!”

Drift refused to pay attention to himself, instead trying to focus on the almost-absent stars overhead in the cloudy night sky, so that he could fervently ignore the few tears of pain and hurt that threatened to spill from his eyes as he fled with his one friend in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any questions or comments that you'd like to make or ask about this AU, you can direct them to:
> 
> www.tumblr.com/blog/anna1795
> 
> We'd love to hear from you!


	5. Thief in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift's had to get out of Dodge pretty quickly, but never let it be said that Orion Pax doesn't have a strong moral fibre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Gumby1011. Thank you for all of your support!

Orion Pax awoke from his slumber prematurely to the familiar sounds of blades rattling in their sheathes and shouting men. It took no time at all for the man to shoot out of bed and slip into the old routine he’d gone through many times over his career. Strip from his night clothes, slip into his arming doublet and trousers, then lashing the red and blue plates into place over that, completing his suit. It took until he’d fastened his last sabaton into place that he realized I should calm down. I’m not on the front lines. Not anymore. And so, the man turned back to face his room mates. “Ratchet, Wheelie. Wake up.”

Wheelie sat up almost immediately and was rubbing crusties out of his eyes. Ratchet, on the other hand, didn’t move a muscle. He simply grumbled, “Already awake, Pax. How’m I supposed to sleep with those hooligans raising the dead out there?”

“Ready your things. We may be leaving soon.” With that, Orion made to leave the room. But not before grabbing his red-hafted battleaxe from where it sat against the wall. As he walked down the stairs and out through the inn’s tavern he could hear angry shouting and people chanting… something. It was very disjointed and indistinct, though. The armored man turned to face the man behind the bar. “What’s the commotion?”

“Oh, man, you just missed it!” The barkeep barked excitedly. “Everybody just left to chase some halfer freak out of town!”

There were a few moments of silence before Orion blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah, some outsider in red and black armor! The bitch was real convincing about it, too!” The barkeep chattered on. “But hey, now we’ve got some real men running her out of town as we speak. Nothing my guests need to worry about!”

Silence reigned throughout the bar for a moment before Orion ran over to the bottom of the stairs. “Wheelie! Ratchet! Be at the stables in five minutes, I’ll have your horses saddled up!”

“You won’t want to see this one, kid,” Ratchet murmured, grabbing Wheelie by the arm and steering him in a detour that’d take them around the rambunctious mob and (hopefully) out of earshot of his bristling Prime, who looked about ready to explode at the innkeeper.

 

* * *

Wheelie and Ratchet knew better than to assume that their lead- man was messing around. Five minutes later, they’d assembled in the stables, with a much-cooled-down Orion who was wiping a fist as casually as if he was washing his face. Seven minutes later, they were fully packed and mounted up, meaning that Orion- a lit lantern in one hand and reins in the other- could finally lead the rest of his party out of the stables with a hearty cry of “Move out!”  

As they reached the gate to the town, only a few stragglers were left of the crowd that had awoken the travelers, and they quickly got out of the way of the pounding hooves of three war-horses and their determined riders. That said, a single guard got out in the middle of the road and flung his arms out, shouting “woah!” And as the three horses skidded to a halt on the cobblestones, Ratchet couldn’t help but shout out. “Come on, get outta the way! We’ve got places to be!”

“You don’t want to go out there, sir!” The guard replied, unmoving. “Those sands are positively brimming with vipers, bandits and scorpions this time of night, so it’s much safer in town.”

Orion’s face was unreadable behind his blue helm and gray mouthplate, but one could detect the slightest hint of anger in his voice. “And yet you would chase someone out there in the middle of the night?”

“Huh?” The guard’s arms lowered in confusion for a moment. “Oh! It was just a halfer, sir.”

“He was a person.” Orion’s blue eyes narrowed, practically glowing by the light of his lantern. “Sir.”

“Uh… um…” The guard shrunk a little bit under the something that seemed off about the man’s gaze, as if his soul were being stripped like an onion. “Well, I’ve warned you of the risks. Can't do much else.” And with that, he slinked to the side of the road.

Moments later Orion and company were galloping out into the desert. Save for a singular loogie of Wheelie’s that was stuck to the guard’s forehead. “Didn’t really need to go that far, kid,” Ratchet muttered.

Wheelie shrugged. “Perhaps, but now that bigot will desire to think twice before drawing a minstrel’s ire.”

"Not the time, Wheelie!" Ratchet rolled his eyes at the boy before gazing out into the darkness, holding his lantern back from his eyes. “I don’t see him, Orion! It’s pitch black out, we’ll never find him!”

“Look, ahead just there!” the red-armored leader suddenly swerved off the beaten path. Ratchet looked out to where the man was going and managed to see a dim speck of light off in the distance. Wheelie and the medic both turned to follow their lead rider, neither willing to get left behind in the rush.

Ratchet, in fact, was just barely able to push his horse to the head of the formation alongside Pax. “My friend, it’s just finally struck me how absolutely absurd this is! Why are we doing this? And what is our plan?”

“We’re doing this because the poor lad was just run out of town in an exceedingly violent manner.” Orion shouted back over the sound of stomping hooves and whipping winds. “There was a sizable pool of blood just outside the stables, did you see it?”

“You don’t think-”

“I do.” Orion nodded. “We’re going to see if he needs any medical help. And if he does, you’re giving it to him.”

“Pax…” Ratchet glanced over at his leader. “You know that it’s impossible for you to save everybody, right?”

“He also probably has my missing coinpurse.”

“Missing- Oh that little shit!” The old medic couldn’t help but shout it into the night, and there was no doubt that his comment had carried. “We need that for food! And our lodg-” But then the medic was cut off as his lantern shattered in his hand, flames licking out of it. The medic had to throw it away just to keep the fire from getting at his horse or saddle. “Well if the little thief wasn’t injured, he should be!” Not ten seconds later a bolt whizzed out of the darkness, devastating the small lantern that Wheelie had been holding above his head. The young minstrel let out a wordless cry that was quickly swept away in another gale of wind

“I’ll deal with that comment later,” Orion warned, handing his old friend the last remaining lantern. “You get back there and keep an eye on Wheelie, I’ll handle Drift.” And with that he spurred his horse ahead of Ratchet, into the darkness. The old warrior kept his eyes on the distant light, eyes trained for any more bolts coming back. However, no such shots came, fortunately. He was sure to keep his horse on the same path he’d seen Drift’s lantern take. His mount may have been a mountain horse, sure, but it seemed to have been getting on in years. The path it had taken would be easily navigable by his own mount. As a matter of fact… was Drift slowing down?

Pax slowed his own mount slightly less than his mark, making sure he approached slowly. But sure enough he seemed like… He was stopping? Why would he be stopping?

 

* * *

“Why are you stopping!?” Drift shouted down at his steed in desperation, glaring at him through blood slicked hair. His legs were pushed in and out by Gasket’s laborious, wheezing gasps for air, but the horse usually had more resilience than this. Taking one last look back at his pursuers, Drift slung the strap for his crossbow over his shoulder and directed Gasket behind a small rock formation, most likely an old funeral kairn.    

Drift slid from his sweat-slicked saddle and moved to Gasket’s head, pressing gloved hands firmly to his companion’s cheeks. The horse puffed cool, moist air rapidly through his nose, and his tongue lolled loosely from his open and bared mouth. “Easy, easy…” the rider soothed, running his fingers through damp grey bangs. “I’m sorry, my friend,” he whispered over Gasket’s desperate panting, pressing their foreheads together. A drop of some liquid, thick and warm, ran down the bridge of his nose to mix with the mountain horse’s coarse fur, and the back of Drift’s head stung from where the clay mug had smashed against it as he retreated that stupid pub. _'Was that pub seriously selling thick liquor?'_ He’d had worse, so he’d live; if Gasket was hurt, though, there’d be hells to pay-

The unmistakable thundering of a racing horse was fast approaching, and it was getting too close and fast for him to be able to use his crossbow effectively. Pushing against Gasket to shift him around, Drift reached for his lantern and his swords. If those people were so determined to kill for violating what they thought that nature intended, then at least he’d go down like a good Decepticon... fighting.

 

* * *

Orion slowed his horse as he drew close to the young man, before dismounting. He was sure to approach slowly. If he was lucky, he’d be able to speak with Drift and prevent any hostilities. And it was the precise moment that these words ran through Pax’s head that the world was plunged into darkness. Drift had shuttered his lantern. The red-armored warrior let out the latest in his running streak of sighs just as he heard the sound of two swords unsheathing. He closed his eyes and listened, straining his ears against the sound of the desert winds… Until he heard the swift, lethal notes of two blades whistling through them. On instinct he raised his forearms, reinforced steel bracers deflecting the blades.

Almost immediately, an armored boot hit Pax in the chest. It didn’t hurt through his own armor, mind you, but it did stagger him for a moment. That moment was enough for Drift to re-angle his blades for a vicious cross-slash, one that Orion only barely heard and ducked under. For a moment there was silence. Or at least nothing that could be heard above the winds that were picking up. Then the call came out through the darkness. “Just leave me ALONE!”

Drift had gotten behind him somehow! Orion barely managed to move his head aside from the overhead slash, but it ended up catching him in the shoulder. Fortunately for the Autobot, though, his suit was built tough, possibly the toughest in the Southern fiefs. The blade- having chopped into his pauldron, just shy of scoring a hit on flesh- caught in place, and after a quick yank that nearly pulled Orion off his feet was quickly abandoned by the vagabond. The Autobot couldn’t help but growl softly before shouting into the darkness. “Stop fighting me, Drift! I’m trying to help you!”

“I don’t need your ‘help!’” Pax listened intently for a moment before hearing hooves charging towards him. The armored man dodged to the side in anticipation of the attack, and Gasket’s hooves barely missed him as they pounded into the dust. “I don’t need changing! You Southerners can’t handle that, so offer your 'help' to some other fool!"

Gasket reared back with an angry neigh that bordered on a screech, with sand-crusted hooves flashing in the faint moonlight. Before he could drop down on the red-armored warrior, Orion held a hand up in a halting gesture. “That’s enough of that.” Pax accompanied the warning with a burst of emotion, of calm/safe/no harm that he knew that even a rudimentary animal born from Primus could detect. Gasket hung on his rear legs for a moment before slamming back down to earth and settling onto all fours, backing away with a puffing snort. “That’s better,” the Prime muttered, pulling out the blade still lodged in his pauldron and sticking it into the sand, looking out into the darkness. “We’re not all like that these days, you know,” he called out to wherever his human attacker was.

Orion never heard Drift get behind him, and only became aware of the fact when the sellsword’s arm slid around his neck, catching the Prime’s chin in the metallic crease of his elbow. It took all the older warrior’s considerable strength to grab a hold of the mercenary’s remaining blade and keep it from running across his throat. Drift was talking right into Pax’s ear when he hissed, “You will _always_ be like that.” In the struggle, Drift brought Orion to his knees, but he was dragged right down with him, and the blade never came an inch closer to its mark. “As long as you pray to your muted, censored gods for the sake of maintaining control, you will _never_ have a place for me, or anyone like me!”

That was...unexpectedly articulated, and certainly not something that he expected to hear out of a sellsword’s mouth, even if he was from the North. He’d heard those words before, but only from Decepticons...For a few moments more they struggled, Pax’s life hanging in the balance. After those precious moments, Pax found what he was looking for. He managed a strangled gasp. “Drift… You’re bleeding.”

Drift’s pressure faltered for the slightest of moments. He was suddenly, painfully aware of the sticky warmth running down the back his neck. “How… How did you…” Taking advantage of the moment of weakness, Pax bodily threw the mercenary off with a grunt. He didn’t even bother to strike back, opting instead to scramble away and let Drift fade into the darkness. Hopefully, he’d be willing to keep his mind open.

As the red warrior stood back up he heard a nigh-barbaric scream, one that moved in such a way it could only have accompanied one attack. So Pax reached up and grabbed Drift by the sides of the head, mere inches from his own. “A headbutt? Really?” the older warrior chuckled. “I appreciate your determination, but I’m wearing a full helm. Not the best thing to headbutt. Lots of sharp angles, and you don’t need another head injury.”

“You just… How are you beating me?” Drift hissed in frustration, no small amount of resentment mixing with the bafflement in his voice. He wrenched his head out of Orion’s now-loose hands, leaving behind several long strands of hair.

Pax, for his part, just chuckled, much like an elder laughing at a mischievous child. “I have my ways. But rest assured, I knew all about your biological situation the moment we met.”

Drift was silent for a moment. “Oh really?” The tone was extremely disbelieving, and Orion heard him take several steps back and to the side, circling. He even heard a sword being pulled from the sand before he readjusted to a new lightness in the middle of the night; Drift’s lantern had been relit. “What do you want?” the mercenary muttered, a sword still in his hand and staying close to a tense Gasket.

“I just want to help you, friend.” Orion held his hands up in that universal sign for I come in peace.

“I already told you, I don’t need-”

“Come now. We have a tent that Ratchet will have most likely set up by now. Unless you’d rather stay out here, and gamble your life on this being as bad as it gets.” And with that, Pax gestured at Drift’s lantern, where grains of sand were sparkling slightly as they blew in front of it. Out here in Simfur, that was never a good sign. “I’ll even have Ratchet take a look at that head wound. What say you?”

“I say ‘what’s in it for you?’” Drift’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. Nothing came for free, not to him, and certainly not out here.

The old warrior couldn’t help but give a tired shrug. “All I want is the knowledge that I didn’t let a good man die while I still owed him the lives of myself and my companions.”

“Orion!” A voice called in the distance, away from an ominous roar coming from the direction of Dodge. “Get in here!”

“Drift, please listen!” Infinite patience that he was credited to have, the whipping of the wind around them and the loss of moonlight was really pressing Orion for time, and damn him to eternal torment by Primus Himself if he left this young man out here alone. “We both know that now is not a good time for mistrust. At the very least, just accept the offer for shelter for the night!”  

Drift stared long and hard at Orion. He didn’t even blink, not even at the wall of sand that could be seen in the distance. _A good man, huh?_ “Alright. Fine.” The vagabond mounted Gasket and spurred him on towards a waving light, where Wheelie was waving a repaired lantern recently. With a huff of relief, Orion slung onto his gelding’s back and quickly followed, stumbling down a sandy slope and into the shelter of a sizeable opening in the river bank. Ignoring Ratchet’s scowl, the undercover Prime pushed his horse into the back of the cave to join Ratchet’s white and Wheelie’s piebald. Finally, he sat heavily down on a rock and watched Drift tend to his settled horse.

“Oh, and for the record?” Orion exhaled, bracing his elbows on his knees, “I personally could care less about the silver, but I will need that purse back.”

All that came from the young Decepticon was an exasperated growl. Pax didn’t even bother to restrain the impish grin under his helm, even when his still-full coin purse was launched at his head.


	6. Out of the Sand, into the Pit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being out of a raging sandstorm does not equate happy times. Drift and Ratchet are forced to get along, and Orion needs to better control himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Gumby1011. We appreciate all of your support and hope that you continue to enjoy our story.

To step outside the Autobots’ tent flap right now would be to die. It would not even be a quick, painless passing; instead, an agonizing shuffle off of this mortal coil during which one’s skin would peel from one’s body, the very air would be unbreathable and clogged with grit, and the last moments before one’s death would be defined by hundreds if not  thousands  of grains of sand ripping their way into one’s veins and blending with their very blood. It was the kind of storm among which all natural beings knew to throw old rivalries out the window. The kind in which desert foxes and hares shared the same dens, their natural antagonism shredded by the razor winds in their bodies’ stead. 

But alas, even the forces of Nature herself are powerless to bend the stubborn resentment shared by some humans. 

So it was that Drift and Ratchet sat crosslegged about a foot from each other, with Orion watching intently from where he leaned against a sandy wall, and Wheelie laying on his stomach, chin resting on his hands. To be perfectly honest it’d been a stupidly long amount of time before either of them had even blinked. In fact the impasse had devolved into a microscopic dance of half-expressions and eye movements. Ratchet raised one eyebrow. Drift’s furrowed in response. Ratchet counter- tch -ed and settled into an unreadable smirk. In a brilliant evasive maneuver, Drift just looked off to the side at the rippling canvas of the tent flap that had been stretched over the entrance to the large, ancient den that they’d taken shelter in and leaned back against his snoozing horse. “You alright there, Gasket?” he asked the slumbering beast in a hushed, gentle voice, scratching behind his ear. 

A puffing snort was his only reply, and Drift leaned against his horse’s barrel and tangled his fingers gently in the silvery mane. Their shelter sat in a dried up riverbed, holed up in a grotto that might’ve once been some large animal’s den, further hollowed out by bandits, and now with the tent flap lashed over the entrance to keep out the wind and most of the sand. With four horses and four humans, it was a little cramped but not completely unmanageable. Enough light was produced by Drift’s one lantern for them to be able to see each other. 

Gasket opened one eye blearily, tilted his head around, and gently tugged at a lock of Drift’s black hair and gave a rumble in his chest. Drift couldn’t help but gawk at the  sheer audacity  of his steed! “I’m fine! It’s-” A quick raise of his hand to the back of his head to check on his wound’s progress. “It’s almost totally scabbed over, I’ll be fine.” 

“You hear that?” Orion inched closer to Ratchet, whispering behind his hand and with the faintest smirk. “Sounds like an awful lot of clotting you’re going to have to pick at before you can get it sanitized.”

The old medic on the other hand just snorted. “It’s almost totally scabbed over, he said. He’ll be fine.” 

“Just give him a bandage already!”  With that high-pitched shout, the entire burrow fell silent again. Except now, everybody was looking at Wheelie. The minstrel, for his part, just glared at the vagabond and the minstrel. “You’ve been at this for an  hour!  My patience has gone sour.”

Ratchet shot a downright venomous look at the young ginger minstrel.“Well I’m sorry that we’re not putting on an entertaining show,  Wheelie.”  The medic folded his arms. “But you know what? This guy doesn’t want my help? I’m not gonna force it and waste perfectly good medical supplies on him.” 

The smirk rolled from Orion’s face like quicksilver from wooden planking. “Ratchet, remember your oaths-”

“Oh of  course. ” Drift interrupted, waving dismissively at the disgruntled medic. “Why  would  you waste any valuable supplies on a  halfer ?” He spat out the slur like it had physically offended him...which it had.

“Are you…” Ratchet couldn’t help but balk at the wanderer. “Are you being  serious  right now?” If you looked very closely, you could see one of his icy blue eyes twitching ever so slightly.

“It’s not the first time that I’ve been refused medical help because-” 

“That’s it- Drift,  here !” Ratchet pointed to the bare patch of floor in front of where he sat while he deftly reached for his medical kit. “Come on, come on, I haven’t got all night!” he barked. 

“Whoa, hold on!” Drift scooted back with very clear alarm in his dimly-lit eyes. “No, seriously, I’m fin- OW!” Half-roused, Gasket gently bumped his wet nose against the back of Drift’s head, supposedly on the impact point, and the sellsword yelped in pain. 

“Uh huh,” Ratchet replied flatly. “Yeah, get over here. Orion, you’ll want to hold his head while I stitch him up.” He was pulling out stitching threat and a clean needle from the box that held his travelling tools. Drift went to open his mouth again, but the death glare from Ratchet was worthy of Mortilus Himself, and he clenched his jaw. 

“Drift, we promise you no harm,” Orion mumbled consolingly, putting his hands to the sides of the young man’s head to keep it steady, lest he hurt himself. “This shouldn’t take long at all.” 

“Humph. No point promising swiftness.” Ratchet huffed as he retrieved two squares of white cloth from his box. He set one of them on the ground, the needle and thread quickly finding temporary rest atop it. The other one was treated to the slightest bit of water from a small bottle in the box, before Ratchet brought the square to the back of the vagabond’s head. “There’s an awful lot of clotting and scabbing that I’ll have to get at before I can sanitize the wound, after all.” 

Drift winced at the stinging pain as the medic started scrubbing- not hard enough to cause any more damage, mind you, but definitely too firmly for comfort. “Is that-  ow-  really necessary?” 

“Not really, no,” Ratchet spat. “But  Primus forbid  you feel like you’re being  discriminated against  due to my reluctance to pull out all the stops and use precious medical supplies  in the desert!”  The medic reached and grabbed a small glass phial before dabbing some of the clear fluid within onto the cloth. “That whole Naturalist philosophy is a fucking  joke,  anyways.” In one swift motion, Ratchet reapplied the cloth to the now-clean cut on the back of Drift’s head. 

He may as well have set fire to it, what with the burning sting that spread throughout the entire wound. Drift reflexively hissed before trying to pull away, only for Orion to keep him held steady with those mighty hands of his. “What the hell  was  that?” Drift blurted out. 

Ratchet shrugged. “Alcohol. The good stuff. Very pure, good for sanitising.” And with that, the medic finally grabbed the needle and thread. “So tell me, Drift. What do you  know  about the physiological differences between a male and female human, with the general body type and training all being equal?” 

Drift gritted his teeth as the needle jabbed through his flesh, painfully but surely pulling the wound shut again. “Do I look like a doctor to you?” 

“Well then.” Ratchet set into a scowl at the terseness of the statement. “It may interest you to know that the average human male is about… hrm… five percent taller than a female, and eight percent heavier. They also tend to be roughly ten percent faster when running. On top of that, females tend to have about sixty percent of the upper body strength of males, as well as seventy percent of the lower body strength. Do you know what this tells us?”

Drift let out a disgusted sigh. He’d heard the lectures before. “No. What does that tell us?” 

“Absolutely  fuck all.” 

It took a moment for Drift to even react to this. “Wait… what?” He tried to shoot Ratchet a look of pure confusion, but Orion kept him completely immobile with the man’s vice-like grip on the sides of his head. You would swear the man’s arms were cut from stone! 

“What these numbers tell us…” Ratchet continued his stitching, now slower and more deliberate since he’d gotten to his main point. “Is perhaps some ancient leftover from when we humans were barely any higher up than beasts, if you’re scientifically inclined as I myself am. As it is, in our current society, gender would mean essentially nothing if only we could get people to  stop insisting that it meant things.  The only thing gender changes that’s of any note to me personally is which spouse I’d have to help get the baby out of. Not a mistake I imagine the husband would take kindly to, eh?” The medic shot a smirk at the sellsword, who couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought. 

“No, I don’t think it would be.” A few moments passed in silence before the thought crossed Drift’s mind to speak again. “So what of the doctors who came  up  with all of this in the first place?” 

“Idiots.” Ratchet grumbled. “Idiot doctors who supplied idiot lords rules for their idiot priests using an idiot philosophy. For idiots.” 

“That’s a lot of idiots.” 

“The world is full of them, kid. Think you’d realize that, given that you seem predisposed to falling in with them.” By now, Ratchet had just about reached the end of the wound, and was tying a knot in the ends of the thread. “They rant and they bluster about how they’re right, their philosophies are right, but I see evidence to the contrary  constantly,  no ranting required. In my home, I’ve seen female Consorts run intellectual circles around their Lords. I’ve seen men dance the following position of a waltz like their legs were  built  for it. And, I happen to know for a fact that the scariest person on the face of Cybertron happens to be a surprisingly thin woman. Done, by the way.” 

“Who, your wife?” Drift quipped with a comradely sneer as he gingerly reached up to the back of his head to inspect the stitches. He simply nodded his approval; this Ratchet person did great work.

“HA!” Ratchet paused where he was, needle above his supplies box, immediately bent over and clutching at his thick barrel, laughing. “BWAHAHAHA! Thank  Primus  no, I would  never  live with that psychotic cyclops, never mind bed her!” Eventually the medic managed to straighten himself up and sighed, wiping an errant tear from his eye. “But yeah, you get my point. Naturalism is stupid. You can let go of Drift now, Pax.” 

Absolutely nothing happened as Orion kept his grip locked on the sellsword. 

“Um… Pax?” 

As it was, Orion wasn’t hearing Ratchet just now. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t hearing much of anything. He might as well have been thousands of miles on the other side of the world, for all that Pax was aware of his surroundings. Ratchet watched with growing concern, and Drift’s face scrunched up in discomfort at what he could feel from the Autobot’s unwanted foray into his head-

* * *

“Look, Drift.” A strong, able hand tipped Drift’s head up from where she...he...had been staring at the cracked, dusty floor and tracing patterns with his big toe. The whole palace was cracked and dusty, like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. He (she?) had sneezed more times here in a week than she’d had in living memory. Still, bright brown eyes followed the calloused finger up to an armor stand. ( what are you doing )

The brightest, newest thing in this entire castle was perched proudly on the wood and scrap metal that had been used to construct the cross-like object; a beautiful, slim armor set of shining red and matte black, with a new battle tunic. Stitched across the front, the Arms of the Lord of Rodion were displayed in finest fashion: a lean black dog on a shield of gold and red. The sigil of the House was also stamped over each metallic shoulder.  

“It looks nice,” Drift whispered, reaching a hand out to touch the crimson silk of the tunic, then drew their hand back and looked up. “May I…?” ( you shouldn’t be in here )  

A drawn, narrow face with shaggy blonde hair and a ragged beard looked down at him and beamed, smile lines crinkling around friendly dark eyes. “You certainly may.” A hand pushed his (her? their?) back forward. Reverent fingers ran through the folds of the brand new fabric. It was so soft, and Drift buried their face into it, letting the soft garment flood their vision and cover their skin. It blocked out the cold. It felt safe. Behind him, Lord Gasket was laughing at the way Drift marveled at the armor set. “It was expensive, but it was worth it. One day, Drift, I want this armor to be yours. It’ll show everyone that you are my family, no matter who you choose to be.” 

* * *

Everyone was dead. They’d had to leave because they were starving, and they were all dead and gone. Blood ran along with the melting snow to mix into the parched, dead dirt. Not even the flies touched the bodies left in the snow-covered huts, barely a few logs lashed together with skins and knotted rope- ( sTop)

He looked down at his dry, skeletal hands, so deathly pale in the cloudy winter daylight. He was drenched in blood. ( geT oUt )Gasket just wouldn’t stop bleeding; none of them stopped bleeding until long after their hearts had stopped. Why couldn’t he have died with them? He wouldn’t be so...alone. 

A towering grey horse, already well into his prime and skeletal from the famine, trotted up to the dead-eyed youngster and mournfully hung his head down to lean it against his shoulder. Absently, Drift hugged his dead Lord’s favorite horse, who was now his-  GET OUT!

* * *

 

With a near-physical wrenching sensation, Orion’s hands flew from Drift’s head, and the two of them lurched away from each other; the Northerner slumped backwards against the much-smaller Wheelie, and Orion collapsed into Ratchet’s waiting hands, nearly sending the medic to the ground. “The hells were you  thinking,  Pax?” the medic growled, shoving the caravan leader to the side to pull his most recent patient off of a struggling Wheelie. “Oh, that’s right! You weren’t! You don’t even  know  the boy, and you’re diving into his  mind?” 

It took a few moments for the shivering Orion to even register that Ratchet had spoken. He’d gone pale as parchment (no easy feat, what with Orion being naturally pale in the first place), and beads of sweat had sprung up on his face while he gulped for air. “I… I didn’t… mean to...I couldn’t stop... Forgive me, Ratchet.” 

“ Maybe  I’ll consider it…” Ratchet grumbled, hoisting a limp Drift (from under whom Wheelie’s arms were still flailing) into his burly arms, allowing the minstrel to escape from under his burden. “You okay there, kid?”

“I thought he’d be lighter.” Wheelie wheezed, stumbling back to his bedroll. “I could have been righter.” 

The medic set his teeth at the minstrel for a moment before setting the sellsword down and putting a hand to his neck. A dark, limp curtain of hair framed Drift’s face while his head rolled loosely to the side. It took a few moments for Ratchet to find a pulse, but when he did… “Oh yeah, he’s  incredibly  unconscious. Good job.” He looked back at Orion with… well, not murderous intent, but it was close. “Mind telling me  exactly  what you saw that had you so thrice-damned engrossed in his whee brain?”

For a few moments. Orion stared at a blank space on the wall. “I know why the horse’s name is Gasket.”

“Come again?”

“The horse.” Orion waved a hand at the sleeping gray stallion. Although he was grayer than he had been in Drift’s memory, come to think of it. “He was named for Drift’s… Well, I don’t know what Gasket was to him  technically,  but he loved the old man like a father. I could tell just from seeing that he loved this man as any child could love a father. Lord Gasket, of Rodion.” Wordlessly, he shuffled to the snoozing sellsword and brushed away the cloak that had obscured old, dented armor. The lustrous red had grown dull over the years, and the matte black finish was scratched and peeling, but the engraving of a leaping hound was still monogrammed over the shoulders. 

“Lord  Gasket ? I don’t...hmm…” The medic squinted his eyes in thought, looking at the coat-of-arms and trying to recollect. “From Rodion? The last name that I remember from the Enclave Records was...Lady Flamewar, but she was confirmed before the War even started.” 

“Ratchet, no Lord or Lady from the North has been confirmed and recorded before the Iacon Enclave  since the War started,” Orion reminded his friend patiently. “The situation could’ve changed a thousand times over, for all that we know.”  

Ratchet raised an eyebrow and glanced at the sellsword. “Maybe so, but no one’s lived in Rodion for years! At least we know  that much. What’s he doing out here?” 

Orion took a moment to let out a pained sigh. “Bleeding Plague. It killed Lord Gasket. I could not glean the full extent of the outbreak, but it seems to have killed everyone Drift had ever known. He was barely more than a  child , and he wasn’t sick. Just a  child , Ratchet ... ”

Ratchet blinked twice before looking down at the unconscious mercenary, barely peaceful in his silent slumber. “Merciful Primus, that’s… that’s just…” Even Ratchet, non-religious as he claimed to be, made the Sign of Quintus’ Mercy across his own face by sliding his fingers across his eyes, then dipping them down to draw parallel lines from the corners of his eyes and down to his lips, in a mock-up of the Many-Handed God’s tears.  

Orion could only nod sagely, feeling his unkind years press down on his shoulders. “This young man has had a rough life. In the end, he has no real place to go.” 

“Well no shit, Orion. I never would have guessed.” The medic couldn’t help but sarcastically snark, shooting the leader a nonplussed scowl. “Although to be fair, I thought it was safe to assume he had no home when we found out he was travelling on his own. Through the desert. You know, killing people for money and loot. But still…” Ratchet looked down at the young man. “That’s one crap way to end up like that.” For a moment the den was silent, until Ratchet looked over at Pax. The brown haired man had that  look  in his eye. That look of unfiltered pity that could only mean-

“I’m taking him to Iacon.” Orion decided aloud, looking over at Ratchet. “You’re not stopping me.” 

The medic was immediately glaring at his leader through his own fingers as he brought a palm to his face. “You know we can’t do that.”

The undercover Prime thought it over for about a second before waving a dismissive hand. “I know nothing of the kind. Not every Northerner is an undercover spy, Ratchet. You of all people should know that. And besides, we can’t just toss him back out into the wilds, not down here.”

Ratchet just let out a frustrated huff. “I think you’ve caught some of our guest’s infectious, presumptuous thinking during your stay in his head, Orion.” He even tapped his own head to emphasise the point. “You’re not talking to Cliffjumper or Red Alert here, my old friend. This is  me  we’re talking to. Of  course  we can’t toss him back to the wilds, but we can’t just waltz him into Iacon! It’s the hometown of your Enclave, for goodness sake! Need I ALSO mention that  you moved the  entire  fucking Naturalist Council there to keep an eye on them and ‘be certain that they behave’, as you so eloquently put it? You really think it would be wise to bring him there, given how Dodge alone reacted to him?” Ratchet pinched the bridge of his nose in a desperate attempt to silence his tirade. “Orion, far be it from either of us to deny him the right to live as a man. He wants it, that’s his deal. The Council won’t tolerate it, and you know that they have connections within the Enclave, whether you like it or not. Unless you’re willing to eliminate that gods-damned Council entirely, and I know that you aren’t, they  will find some way to have him killed.” 

“I can keep him safe-” 

“I hate to say it, _Optimus_ , but you can’t. Not even you, with your authority as a Prime, can make the fanatical morons see common sense when they’re so convinced that they’re right.” 

“Well then in that case, what did  you  have in mind?” Orion looked the medic dead in the eye and asked in exasperation. “I will  not see him fall through the cracks and suffer just because of outdated prejudices.” Ratchet never had been the type to shoot down a plan without an alternative at the ready.

Ratchet looked at Orion. Then he looked at Drift. The he looked up at the ceiling and whatever malevolent gods were laughing at him up there, right now. “Well… I guess, if we’re out of options I can-” and immediately the medic’s voice dropped to a mumble as soft as a whisper. 

“Oh come now, friend, let’s hear it,” Orion half-chuckled. “Is it really  that  bad of an option?”

“It is for me,” Ratchet moped. “But yeah... I could take him with me to Nova Cronum. Primus knows the place is just  dripping  with ex-cons and other misfits. He should feel right at home.” 

For a moment, Orion raised a critical eyebrow.

“Hey, I mean that as a compliment, I really do.” Ratchet couldn’t help but shrug. “I mean, take me for example. I’m a Southerner medic who says ‘screw Naturalism.’ That’s crazy. Primus forbid that he came with me to the Citadel, but if he did, Gods knows that Whirl might appreciate a challenge, given his skills with different weapons. Rung would have a field day just metaphorically picking his brain apart, not to mention-” 

Orion couldn’t help but give a deep chuckle at that, interrupting Ratchet’s stream of thought. “I suppose you’re right, my old friend. You’ve made your point.” Then he glanced back down at the boy. “I wonder how he’ll take the news?” 

“Huh?” Ratchet also looked down at Drift. “Oh. Right. Well, assuming he’s not  too  pissed at you when he wakes up, we’ll have to talk to him about it in the morning. It’s his decision, after all. But for now,” Ratchet let out a jaw-gaping yawn,  “I need my rest.” And with that, the medic walked over to the nearest cave wall and propped himself up against it. “G’night, Pax.”

“That wasn’t the  him that I meant…” Orion breathed to himself, gently dragging the unconscious Drift over to Gasket and laying him against the horse’s barrel. The sellsword’s sunken eyes scrunched up for a moment, and he burbled something faint in his sleep before nuzzling his chest closer to Gasket’s warmth and curling into a protective ball. Woken from his doze, the old stallion rubbed his wet nose along the top of his companion’s head and stared at Orion through the dim gloom before settling himself back down again. Orion, for his part, simply walked over to his own bedroll and laid down on it. “Goodnight, Ratchet.” The medic didn’t hear him, already filling the den with soft snores. Just before the Autobot leader fell asleep, Orion couldn’t help but laugh a little to himself and to the Gods.  'For a sabbatical, this trip has been entirely too stressful.'    


  
  



	7. On the Road Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift wakes up on the wrong side of the cave, Ratchet can't cook, and Wheelie gains some unexpected help in his artistic pursuits.

It was a beautiful morning, that much went without saying. After the sandstorm had passed by, the desert had settled into a marvelous contrast of complete tranquility: The cloudless, brilliantly blue sky was set off by the reddish-orange desert sands, and there was still a lingering early-morning chill in the air. It was such a pleasant morning, in fact, that the three Autobots had moved both themselves and the caravan’s horses outside to enjoy the weather while it lasted. 

 

Wheelie in particular was sat on a smooth stone that jutted out from the mouth of the cave, strumming along on his lute in an attempt to harness this  gorgeous  morning into a melodious form. Surely if he were to write a tune that could capture the essence of this glorious morning, it would catch on like wildfire back at the Iacon Hall of Song! So Wheelie strummed along, his gaze occasionally drifting from the beautiful setting of his inspiration to his two travelling companions as they caught his eye. Which meant he was typically looking at Ratchet, to be perfectly honest. Make no mistake, Orion was practically a walking statue as it was, at least in form. It had been said many times that he seemed to be cut from stone, that he walked with utter solidity, that if he had any aesthetic faults they were never to be seen. 

 

To be perfectly honest that was good and all, but the youngster couldn’t help but feel awfully unimpressed by that. Especially now, with Orion sitting cross-legged, eyes closed facing towards the rising sun in absolute, motionless silence. He may as well have  been  a statue- an incredibly lifelike, handsomely built statue, but a statue nonetheless. Wheelie never had any great love for statues. He saw them all the time back in the Hall, and he appreciated them for what they were, but true beauty in this world was  so  much more than that. Motion. Sound. Symphonies of the two, blended together into heartfelt song and fervent dancing. If there was motion or sound, Then it was Wheelie’s goal to find the beauty in it, and if he was lucky he could even give it musical form. 

 

Take Ratchet for instance. Most minstrels would look at any alchemist, doctor or similar tradesman and see them as the antithesis of themselves. Sterile. Calculating. Unfeeling. Perhaps there was some merit to that. But from what Wheelie could see right now- as Ratchet tended the fire and finished warming the porridge they were to have for breakfast- that wasn’t at all the case for this medic, at least. True his movements were more precise than most, and most people weren’t  that  methodical of fire builders, but Ratchet moved with a kind of at-ease fluidity that belied his role as a medic. Especially those hands. Yes, those surprisingly calloused hands of his that moved so fluidly and swiftly about their tasks, no matter how mundane or vital they might be. They dashed occasional spices and extra bits of water into the porridge as it cooked with every bit of the care and precision with which he’d sewn up Drift’s head the night before. 

 

Perhaps when Wheelie had finished with the morning weather he’d try and find a way to coax that particular style of movement into song… It’d be worth a try, at the very least!

 

Thinking of Drift… Wheelie stopped strumming for a moment before looking up to the sky absentmindedly, with a ponderous grin and a hand to his chin. Yes, Drift was an interesting case as well, as far as motion goes. He moved with grace to be sure, yet there was a certain…  No, brutality isn’t the word. Cruelty seems a bit harsh as well…  Ah! Yes, finality, that was a good way to describe it. Everything Drift did seemed curt and meaningful. Much like when he fought, Drift always went straight for the killing stroke and did not waste time. That’d make an interesting song, to be certain, especially since you’d be hard pressed to write one more than a few measures long. His fight with Orion had been finished in mere minutes and his lethal skirmish with the bandits had been briefer than that. Even now, as Drift charged out of the tent screaming “ Nobody gets in my head!”, in rumpled clothing and with a sword in each hand- 

 

OH PRIMA, NO!

 

Ratchet and Wheelie were powerless to do anything to stop it, so fast was Drift’s haphazard attack. The Vagabond made a beeline straight for Orion, leaping into the air with his swords both hauled back for vicious, heart-piercing thrusts. Thrusts that utterly murdered the patch of ground just in front of where Orion had been sitting- without so much as a sound, the caravan leader had leaned to one side and avoided both blades... that were now jabbed about a foot into the ground. Wheelie let out a loud, breathy sigh of relief, whereas Ratchet just went back to stirring his porridge and muttered “Damn show off” to himself. 

 

“ HOW?!”  Drift screamed at the peaceful, unflappable meditator. “ How  do you keep doing that!?” The vagabond  obviously  wasn’t ready to give up the fight yet, but there wasn’t really a way for it to go on, what with him having a hard time getting his swords back out of the ground and all. For his part, Orion didn’t- or couldn’t, Wheelie really didn’t know how his meditations worked- respond to his attacker. He just scooted his bottom along the ground in the direction he’d dodged until he arrived at an upright, perfect cross-legged meditation pose again. 

 

“No need to be frightened,” Wheelie offered with a wave at their sellsword guest. “Pax is just that enlightened!” 

 

Drift- finally getting one of his swords out of the ground with both hands, turned and looked at the minstrel. “You know what, Wheelie? I’d say that that’s actually  less  helpful than no explanation at all.” 

 

For a moment the minstrel shot Drift a dirty look before muttering “Can’t be clear all the time, when I’m bound up to rhyme.” 

 

“Then  stop doing the rhyming thing!”  Ratchet hollered over from the fire. “You have literally no reason for it! And  you!”  Ratchet jabbed his dripping mixing spoon at Drift, a scowl on his face. “Don’t be too hard on Orion, he didn’t mean it.” 

 

“He didn’t  mean  it?” Drift shouted back over his shoulder as he bent down to grab his other sword. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you could dive into-” With a grunt, Drift’s blade started coming free of it’s sandy prison. “Other people’s brains-” Drift looked back at Ratchet accusatively, his attention slipping from the sword. “By  accident!”  With one final yank the sword came free, and Drift fell back to the ground, caught a little bit off guard by his sudden victory. “Mind telling me exactly  how  that happens?” 

 

“Well, uh, you see…” Ratchet looked down at the porridge once more, his scowl softening into a remorseful and thoughtful frown. “That one’s on me.” The medic crouched back on his haunches and ran a hand back through his hair with a sigh. “I may or may not have directly caused that episode by forgetting how Orion’s particular abilities worked.” 

 

Wheelie couldn’t see whatever expression was on Drift’s face as he turned to face the medic, but judging by his deadpan tone of voice he had an incredulous eyebrow raised. “You what?” 

 

“Look, it’s simple.” Ratchet shrugged. “At a distance, Pax can only read emotions and the very basics of a person’s psyche. To start reading thoughts he has to get close. As in, he needs to put his hands on them. And the closer his hands get to a person’s head, the more he reads. Whether he wants to or not.” 

 

By that point Drift was already back on his feet and pointing a sword at Ratchet. “Oh. So you just have him  grab hold of my freakin’ temples,  do you?” 

 

Of course, as is typical of these sorts of misunderstandings, Pax’s eyes finally snapped open after his morning meditation to the sound of these words. He immediately hopped up to his feet upon hearing  plenty  of venom in the sellsword’s voice. “Ah, Drift! You’re finally up!” The prime turned around looked Drift dead in the eye, a cheerful smile brightening his face like Primus’ sun. “Good, now we can get started.” 

 

“Get started with what?” The sellsword glanced around. 

 

Ratchet just rolled his eyes as he walked up behind the sellsword before shoving a wooden plate of porridge into his startled hands. “With breakfast, you idiot.” 

 

Wheelie couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight. Drift and Ratchet, now  there  was a pair who would make for a song. Not a good song, mind you, so much as a cacophony of contrasts with only the basic rhythm of passive-aggression shared between them. And it would be  hilarious.  Of course, it was only a matter of time before these thoughts were interrupted by Ratchet setting a plate of “porridge” on his lap. By all that was from Quintus’ holy bounty, it felt like he’d set down a heap of half-set mortar. “I know that being ungrateful is detestable,” Wheelie piped up, eyebrow raised while he watched the stiff grey mush stick to his wooden spoon. “But I doubt that this food is the least bit digestible.” 

 

“Well you’ll deal with it or go hungry, Wheelie,” grumbled before handing Orion his bowl of porridge. “I don’t claim to be a gourmet, kid, but I know what we need to keep going and I promise this’ll really stick to your ribs.” 

“It’s not my ribs I’m worried about,” Drift muttered before attempting to stir his own porridge. All that happened was he dug a trough out of it, a bunch of which stuck to his spoon in a semi-congealed wad. “Merciful Solus…”

 

Orion, on the other hand, immediately dug into his own meal, although “dug” seemed like less apt of a descriptor than “carved out a bite.” After his first bite he nodded, and somehow managed to keep a straight face. “Very good Ratchet, you’ve been improving! A bit thick, though.” 

 

“Blame the desert for that,” Ratchet huffed. “Not my fault we gotta conserve as much water as we can.”

 

Pax simply shrugged. “I suppose that’s fair. Thank you for the meal, Ratchet.” 

 

“Thank you, Ratchet,” Wheelie chimed in unenthusiastically. Drift just remained silent, and was poking at the spoon sticking out of his porridge. It refused to move. 

 

Ratchet shot Drift a miffed glare. “You’re going to want to get started on that. It  will  set in place if you let it.” Drift impishly stuck out his tongue, grimaced at the lumpy heap on his spoon, and gulped down one spoonful of the mush. Beggars could not be choosers, though, and each spoonful was deliberately and, most unwillingly, shoved into his mouth. 

 

“So, Drift!” Orion butted in as he ate. “What are your plans? I assume you’re going to be headed somewhere to resupply, yes?” 

 

“Um..” Uneasily, Drift looked over to Gasket, who was grazing on a patch of desert scrub he’d pawed out of the sand. His saddlebags  did  seem awfully empty, even with his decent resupply in Dodge. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” He hopped up from his seat- conveniently leaving his breakfast behind- and walked over to Gasket. “Should be able to find my way around pretty easily, though, I have a map and all.” Drift rummaged around through his saddlebags until he found said map: a roll of yellowed parchment that was torn up around the edges. Wheelie couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the roll- it looked positively ancient! “Alright, so with Dodge out of the picture… hrm.” Drift unrolled the map and looked it up and down. “I’d say my next best option would be either Polaris Village or Magna Town.” For a moment only the desert winds and the grazing horses made any noise as Ratchet and Optimus looked at each other worriedly. “What?”

 

“Well, that’s gonna be kinda tough to do, kid,” Ratchet put a hand to the back of his head. “Especially considering that Magna Town was demolished by Decepticon raiders a year ago.” 

 

“Yes, indeed,” Orion nodded. “And Polaris was evacuated during a particularly ferocious Fleshlet infestation a while back. I believe they’re still waiting for the creatures to die out before reinhabiting. Not the smartest stop.” 

 

Drift wrinkled his nose in disgust before looking back down to his map. So much for laying low and sticking to the backwater towns. “Okay, then I guess it’s off to the Hamlet of Corpus for me.” 

 

“We’ll be going past Corpus, but there’s nothing within.” Wheelie raised his hand as he spoke. “I’ve heard of it’s sacking in many a hymn.”

 

Ratchet couldn’t help but balk at the traveller. Corpus had fallen  years  ago, in spectacular fashion at that! The Devastators had been present for that battle.“Kid, how old  is  that map?”

 

Drift took a breath to reply, but after a moment’s pause simply let it out. “Well, I... bought it just before heading south, I honestly have no idea.” 

 

“It might be wise to let us have a look at that.” Orion stood, his empty hand open. “If only to help prevent any wasted travels on your part.” 

 

“Alright, if you say so.” Drift walked over to the caravan leader and handed him his map, and within moments Ratchet and Wheelie were looking over his shoulders as the red-garbed leader sat down to contemplate the map. 

 

“Oh dear…” Orion’s brow furrowed as he looked down at the map. It was sizeable, detailing the kingdoms of the borderlands between the north and south. However, while the northern fiefs’ layouts were all flawless- as far as the Southerner could tell- the southern kingdom half of the map was  horribly  out of date. He looked from Wheelie to Ratchet, then held out an empty hand. “Charcoal.” Ratchet retrieved a bit of writing charcoal from his trouser pockets and handed it to the leader. “Alright, gentlemen. Let’s go to work.” 

 

“Alright, so Nominus was also swept up in that whole Devastators debacle, right?” 

“Yeah, that’s right, about the same time as Corpus.”

“Sounds about right.” 

“Let’s not forget that the town of Sirine turned ghostly once they emptied that mine.” 

“Ah, yes, that’s right.”

“Hearthkeep seems to be missing from this map.” 

“It would be about… hrrrrm… There, with roads meeting there, and here.” 

“Wait, didn’t a sellsword outpost get set up on that road?” 

“Yeah, the one disguised as a toll outpost. Ridiculous. There aren’t any toll roads out here.” 

“It may not truly be their domain, but it’d be wise to stay clear all the same.” 

“That didn’t rhyme.” 

“Whatever happened to Einhart, anyways?” 

“I’m pretty sure that’s a Naturalist town.” 

“Ah. I see. And what of-” 

“Oh god, don’t even  suggest  he go there- that was the Naturalist settlement that got a Fleshlet infestation and  then  was set fire to to prevent it spreading.”

“Unfortunate.” 

“Indeed.” 

 

With every quip and comment, a new line was drawn or note was added to the parchment. Towns were written out of existence, new ones sprang up, and every Naturalist settlement was conveniently labelled by the three Autobots. Once all the political updates were made to the map, Wheelie grabbed Ratchet’s map of the area and they set about updating geography. Valleys that had been filled with sands, oases that had dried up… by the time the Southerners were finished making all of their changes, Orion held just a nub of the original charcoal in his hand. “There, that should do it.” He handed the parchment back to its owner. 

 

It took Drift a few minutes to go over the changes, and with each change he noticed his expression slipped further and further from an irritated glare into horrified shock. “ No. ” 

 

Ratchet simply rolled his eyes. “Oh come on, Drift, it’s not  that  ba-” 

 

“No no no  no NO!”  Drift fell to his knees as he looked at the map, caught between white-knuckled fingers. “There’s  no Primus-forsaken way ! Are you making this up?” The sellsword looked up at the three Southerners. “ Please tell me you’re making this up! It has to be some sort of cruel joke.” 

 

“I’m certain we wouldn’t have much to gain from causing you emotional pain.” Wheelie quipped, folding his arms across his chest. 

 

“But… But this is…” Drift looked back down at the map. All of the towns within three day’s ride had been destroyed by some or other type of calamity over the years. On top of that all of those within five day’s ride were either infested with bandits or heavily Naturalist, and on top of  that , half of the oases he’d been sure he kept between himself and the Northern Fiefs- his emergency lifeline he’d been sure to stay within reach of- had totally dried up! There was no way back north without going through Dodge or dying of dehydration with all of two waterskins, and that meant… “Megatronus save me, I’m  stuck down here!” 

 

Orion walked over to the sellsword. “Drft, please calm down. This isn’t the end of the world.” 

 

Drift shot a glare like hot daggers at the leader. “Well, of course  you  would say that, you  live  down here!  I  may as well be caught behind enemy lines. I  am caught behind enemy lines! I mean, I’m no soldier but…” Normally so stoic and aggressive, Drift’s lips trembled while he gaped down at the map, jaws opening and closing like a fish on the docks. Several long, awkward moments passed, and his brilliant brown eyes flashed to being rather flat and listless. “Hey, Ratchet.” The young man’s voice was detached and oddly quiet. “Any chance you’ve got a vial of poison in that box?” 

 

The medic, gobsmacked, folded his arms at Drift and glared at him. “No, of course I don’t. ‘Do no harm,’ remember? Gods, if the South is so awful, why did you even bother coming down here in the first place?” 

 

For a moment, no one spoke. In fact, Drift just bowed his head in silence and hung his head in his hands, dejected. It was a motion that utterly perplexed Wheelie to be honest. True, he hadn’t known the sellsword for long, but he’d always acted with confidence and purpose, or at the very least resentful defiance. Now, he just looked… Well, to be honest he looked defeated and lost. He looked like he might even be about to cry. 

 

In the silence, Orion pulled a thick glove- the lining for his gauntlet- from his pocket and put it on before walking up to Drift and putting a hand on his shoulder. “You know, you could always come with one of us, if you’d like.” 

 

Drift couldn’t help but glance at the hand before looking up at Orion. “What’s with the glove?”

 

“I don’t plan on chancing anymore looks into your mind. Not without your permission at least. That said…” Orion shrugged before looking back to Ratchet. “I don’t think we need to be a mind reader to guess you’re going to need a place to stay, correct?”

 

“Oh no. No no  no.”  Drift furiously shook his head. “There is no way in the hells I’m staying down here!” 

 

In a fit of frustration, Ratchet stomped over to Drift and got  right  up in his face. “Alright, you simpleton, I’m going to put this into terms that you can easily digest: We’re taking you to Nova Cronum. That’s how this is going to work, and by the Primes I sincerely hope you  don’t stay long! That said, it’s a massive city- not to mention the  nearest  city- with merchants for just about everything you’d need for the long trek up north, everything from water to dried meats to crossbow bolts to armor maintenance. And for the record, I wouldn’t even  think  of taking you there if the place wasn’t already crawling with defected ‘cons.”

 

Drift glared at the slightly taller medic. If there was one thing he didn’t like, it was getting yelled at point blank. “Take a step back, Ratchet,” he growled, a hand slipping down towards his belt; not being an overt threat, but the message was clear for what would happen if his personal space was not respected. The medic did so, his frown unwavering. “Good. Now… What’s this about defected Decepticons?” It wouldn’t take a Minstrel’s ear to hear the curious lilt in the sellsword’s voice. In that moment every Autobot in on the conversation relaxed; Drift had taken the bait. 

 

“Oh, we’ve got them all over the place back in Nova Cronum!” Ratchet explained over his shoulder- he’d already begun kicking sand on the fire to put it out. “We’ve got ‘em working in the guard; some own a couple of shops; hells, there’s one who’s even training to be a Consort. Fancy that, right?”

 

“Hold on a minute-” Drift raised a  very skeptical eyebrow at the medic. “A Decepticon... training to be a  Southern  consort? Heh.” Drift shook his head. “Probably not that good of a Decepticon.” 

 

“Oh no, she’s a  brilliant  Decepticon, even if she’s always saying that she’s  not a Decepticon. She’s actually not very good at being a Southern Consort.” Ratchet grabbed the pot hanging over the firepit by its handle before turning to face Drift. “More power to her for it. I am absolutely serious.” 

 

Drift looked over from where he’d started performing pre-travel checks on all the buckles and clasps on Gasket’s riding gear. “Oh? How so?”

 

Pax spoke up as he started taking down the tent flap from the cave entrance. “Well, as Ratchet’s explained it to me, she insists on not choosing a Guardian until she finds one that can do a better job protecting her than  she herself  can.” The lead Autobot simply turned to Drift and shrugged. “She’s not very easy to impress, as I’ve heard.”

 

Ratchet cleared his throat. “In fact, she is the oldest Consort in the Halls of Ivy. Nearing her twentieth summer of age, and she’s seen at least eight years’ worth of Guardians. Never once even considered them an option, not with their performances.”

 

“If I’m hearing this right…” Drift shot a sideways glance at his Autobot companions with a proud smirk. “It’s that Northern Consorts can beat your Guardian’s asses, then?” the sellsword looked back to his saddle work only to notice Gasket shooting him a look that would only be described as a ‘seriously?’ look. “Oh, hush you.” the Rodian muttered under his breath. Gasket merely puffed a quiet nicker. 

 

“Eh, don’t get too far ahead of yourself, kid.” Ratchet muttered before tossing his own saddle up on his horse. “Last couple years of graduates have been kinda lackluster. This might be the year someone pulls it off, though, we’ve got some promising hopefuls this time around.” 

 

“Alright, I guess we’ll have to see, then.” Drift shrugged before climbing up on top of Gasket. “Now, tell me about this “scariest person in the world” you mentioned last night.” 

 

“Oh  gods.”  Ratchet leaned forward and pressed his head against his horse. “Where do I even  start  with her…”

 

* * *

It had been several hours of riding so far. The winds were almost still, the dry heat was oppressive enough to crack lips, and everyone in the four-man caravan could honestly care less. Pax was riding in the front of the convoy again, smiling as Drift (behind Ratchet) and Ratchet (behind Wheelie) talked all about Nova Cronum. To be perfectly honest, a much more honest description would be “Ratchet regaling Drift with tales and frustrations of his town of residence,” all of which the Decepticon listened to with quiet, rapt interest. They’d wandered around topics from “Scariest in the world” Whirl, to a running list of fights at a certain armorsmiths’ speakeasy, to the best places to find work to save money for a trip back north, to tournament fighting, all the way back around to Whirl again. All along, Wheelie strummed his lute and hummed along with his own playing, serving as background ambience for the tales Ratchet was spinning.

 

“Let me see if I understand this correctly,” Drift couldn’t help but smirk at Ratchet’s latest tale. “She acts this crazy on  purpose?” 

 

“Indeed. At least, that’s the way her... Guardian...Consort... paramour tells it, at least.” Ratchet shrugged. “I mean, I’m no shrink, so it’s somewhat difficult for me to understand myself; apparently, she ‘derives pleasure from catching others off guard’ and also ‘acts out erratically as an attention-seeking mechanism.’” 

 

“That… seems a little too normal of an explanation.” Drift scratched the back of his head as he thought. 

 

“Isn’t it, though?” Ratchet shrugged. “Although it  would  explain that one time I saw her lost in a spar. All the other guy did was stare at her,  unblinking , for two and a half minutes, for goodness sake.”

 

Drift bowed his head, completely lost in where this particular incident could have been going once again. It seemed a common occurrence in tales featuring Whirl, to be honest. “Okay, and how did that even work?” 

 

“Well, eventually she started doing cartwheels. With her rapiers in her hands. And they got stuck in the ground.” Ratchet shrugged. “Her sparring partner jumped on her almost immediately and managed to get the win.” 

 

“That is just a  horrible  way to lose a match.” Drift folded his arms, torn between a derisive smirk and a humored one. 

 

Ratchet nodded sagely (although he was still smirking). “Yes, it sure is. Not certain that strategy would work in an  actual  fight, though. I’m pretty sure she sees sparring as a big game, anyways.” 

 

Pax looked back over his shoulder to pitch in his two cents. “Well, sparring  is  kind of like a game, isn’t it?” 

 

“I suppose that, in  theory,  yes,” Ratchet conceded. “But the whole point is to train yourself up for  serious  fights, and if Whirl isn’t laughing or screaming during a spar, she doesn’t think you’re doing it right. It’s amazing she’s kept her position for as long as she has, really.” 

 

“I don’t think she would have even lasted a year-” Wheelie piped up, keeping with the melody he was humming. “If her betters she did not make shiver with fear.” 

 

“True, true.” Ratchet admitted. “It always warms my heart, the way that Sentinel just  flinches whenever Whirl’s in the same wing of the Ring.” 

 

“The Ring?” 

 

“The Ring of Holly and the Hall of Ivy,” Ratchet spouted off, as if from a lecture. His tone shifted, from flat and sullen to pompous and near-falsetto. “‘As in accordance with the set rules of Primus and His natural world, the Holly represents masculine strength, the Guardian, and superiority, as well as the ability to defend the delicate, vulnerable Ivy. Thus, the Guardians are housed in the Ring to protect the Consorts in the Hall.’” The noise out of Ratchet’s mouth at the end of his tirade was a cross between a guffaw of mirth and a spit-take of derision. “That is, if you want to believe the hogwash spewing from Sentinel Magnus- _oi_!” 

 

Drift shortened the slack on Gasket’s reigns, bringing the old horse to a halt. His face was twisted into one of righteous anger. “You have a  Magnus who’s an active, idiotic Naturalist?! What are you morons-” Gasket jerked from Wheelie’s rather absent-minded piebald colliding with his hindquarters, scooting the mountain horse forward a few indignant steps. “Are you insane?!” Drift demanded animatedly, ignoring the hurried, rhyming apologies of Wheelie. “You want your regional justice being administered by some  pompous, asinine -” 

 

“Calm down!” Ratchet snapped, cutting across Drift before he could work himself up into a tizzy. “Sentinel just has the title because it makes him feel important. Alpha Trion makes the  real decisions as the Trine Lord, and Sentinel’s too busy chasing after their Guardian for a chance to bed him, or rebuking the Consorts, for himself to be taken seriously.” 

 

“There will be Naturalists in many places in the South, Drift,” Orion professed smoothly, exuding that air of infuriating, eternal patience and calm. “That does not mean that the South is completely Naturalist, however. I...Iacon is the new home of the Naturalist Council, under the careful scrutiny of our Prime. They hold no position of power or authority in the current Prime’s regime.”

 

“Why do they even still exist  at all ?” Drift demanded of Orion with a snap in his brusque voice, unconscious to Gasket resuming movement with the rest of the troupe. “They’re the scum of Cybertron. You seem to know so much, so maybe you can tell me.” 

 

“I suppose...that the people felt their influence was necessary for a time,” Orion Pax offered, very cautious about his choice of words. “However, time marches on, and so must society. The Naturalists didn’t seem to think so, and I- I was part of the Prime’s Army that removed the Naturalist Council from positions of political and religious authority in most of the South.” 

 

“Not every Southerner’s a Naturalist, kid,” Ratchet pointed out, unabashedly harsher with his words. “Most of the Prime’s Enclave hates them as much as you do, and you’ll find sympathy for halfers and the like wherever you go, in some form. Smooth out that chip in your shoulder and lose the attitude.” 

 

“Please, do not fight so!” Wheelie interrupted quickly, before the Northern fighter and Southern medic could come to snarling blows. “With Drift’s experience, it does not look like he would have known.” 

 

“Your rhyming is improving, Wheelie, and you are right,” Orion conceded with a short bow of his head to his ward. “There is no reason to bear a grudge, you two. Ratchet, Drift is obviously not like the Decepticons that we have fought together; Drift, we are simply trying to help you avoid the prejudice that you do not deserve by giving you fair warning.” Drift and Ratchet continued to glare at each other, and Orion’s passive, calming smile slid into a stern frown. “I would prefer that neither of you comes to physical blows with one another over such a petty argument. After all, wars have been fought over less, and quite needlessly so. Can we not continue to travel to our respective destinations in peace?” 

 

“Ungrateful, insolent brat-” 

 

“ Ratchet ,” Orion warned the medic with a raised eyebrow, blue eyes sharp with that same... something , that undeniable presence of power. 

 

“Fine,” Ratchet groused, kicking his steed forward to pull to the head of the group. He shouted an apology back to Drift and made his exit from their argument in snarking, rude fashion. 

 

Even Orion gave a resigned sigh and rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment. “I apologize for my friend’s behavior-”

 

“He’s entitled to his opinion.” How Drift managed to make that come off as a pompous sniff, without it actually being so, was quite a remarkable show of physical restraint. “I’m entitled to mine. We don’t have to get along all the time, and our travels will  thankfully be short. Still,” he added, with a softer tone at the afterthought, “thanks for clearing things up. You’re pretty good at conflict resolution.” 

 

Wheelie watched the exchange with interest, and noted the pained grimace that his foster-father kept carefully hidden after a moment’s lapse in emotional control. Drift may not know Orion’s actual profession, but spending most of his own short life with Orion Pax kept Wheelie privy to many of the emotions that he could not publicly express as Optimus Prime. Wheelie, being just short of his teenage years, understood more about the emotional damages of war, what with him being Orion’s adopted son, than most children would hopefully know in their lifetimes. Swearing to secrecy about his father’s true identity for the duration of his sabbatical, though, kept Wheelie silent and refocused on the lute in his hands. 

 

Wheelie plucked the strings in rhythm to the memorized music, but the end of the phrase proved difficult, what with the jump from the first to fourth string and the entirely different fingering on the bridge. Determined, he repeated the phrase again and tried to make the jump, but faltered once again. Before he’d left, the masters at the Hall of Music had given him numerous new ballads to learn, but some the fingerings were proving difficult for his small, albeit dextrous hands. Jazz usually helped with alternate fingerings, but seeing as his father’s new Consort wasn’t around- 

 

“Need some help?” 

 

Broken out of his concentration, Wheelie was too shocked to resist when Drift gently pried the lute from his fingers. The minstrel looked up at the sellsword as he tested out a few fingerings, getting familiar with Wheelie’s lute until he found a chord that he liked. It was the exact same chord as the one Wheelie had been trying to figure out, as a matter of fact! “Your quick learning compounds my frustration most profound…” Wheelie muttered at the young man. 

 

Drift looked down at the younger boy and raised an eyebrow. “There’s nothing really quick about it. I took lessons once. Look.” The sellsword leaned towards the minstrel, his hands and the lute angled so he could see the fingering clearly. “You were putting a different finger on each string, right?” He moved his fingers around to imitate what Wheelie had been doing earlier, appearing his hand to bend like a misshapen claw. “It’s not a really practical style for complex chords like this one. You can use your index finger for both of the low notes if you press it at a slant, that frees up your middle finger instead of keeping the two right next to each other, you see.” Drift adapted his described fingering, strummed the lute, and the chord came out beautifully! “That way you don’t have to use your weak little ring finger to finish the chord.” Drift then held out the lute for Wheelie to take it back. “Now you give it a try.” 

 

The minstrel grabbed back the lute as quick as a shot, propping it up on his lap and aping the fingering Drift had shown. It wasn’t as easy as Drift had shown it- Wheelie had suspected as much- but it was still  leagues  less murderous on his hands. With a quick strum the boy made sure that the chord came out right, and it sang out as flawlessly as Drift’s had. “For the tip you have my gratitude!” Wheelie grinned up at the sellsword. “Wouldn’t have pegged you as musical, what with your attitude.” 

 

Drift couldn’t help but wince in surprise. “And what in the hells is  that  supposed to mean?” 

 

“Wheelie, speak kindly.” Pax warned with a glance over his shoulder. “Drift is still our honored guest, after all.” 

 

“I still need to rhyme, said the first thought of mine.” Wheelie admitted, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. 

 

Drift rolled his eyes before falling back to the rear of the caravan. “Thanks for that…” he muttered to himself.

 

Back up at the front of the caravan, Ratchet leaned in close to Orion, stage-whispering. “Are you  sure this is a good idea?” 

“Trust me on this one, my old friend.” The head rider raised a calming hand to the medic. “If there’s any one thing I can tell about this boy it’s that there’s more to him than meets the eye.” 

 

“Well that’s not very comforting.” Ratchet huffed, glancing back at the sellsword. “Still… Guess I may as well cross my fingers and hope these hidden parts you refer so cryptically to are  positive,  I guess.” 

 

Orion leaned over and elbowed his traveling companion playfully. “See, Ratchet? That’s the spirit. Thank you kindly for taking to him so optimistically!” 

 

As for Ratchet, he just rolled his eyes and fixed them on a distant, empty point. “Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome,” he grumped. He could feel it in his bones- there was certainly something…  significant  about Drift. The fact that even Ratchet could sense it is exactly what had him so worried. Well, with any luck the air would be clear by the end of the journey to Nova Cronum. 

 

 

 


	8. A Deal with a Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, the horses don't have to suffer in silence anymore...their riders can finally have a much-needed bath that can clear their heads and clear the path for Drift to (hopefully) find a life in the South.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, after two weeks of life trying to force-feed us like birds feeding reluctant chicks, Gumby1011 has a new chapter.

Scrub and red, dusty sands shifted, over the course of the next two days, into a short stretch of dry grasslands, followed almost immediately by a river dividing the grassland from an extensive birch forest. Birches, aspens, and short oaks stretched for miles in every direction for the caravan, offering a leafy refuge from the cloudless sky overhead. The heat, being significantly less here, created a comfortable environment for the riders, and they evolved into a relatively peaceful coexistence for the long ride. True, Drift and Ratchet still tended to exchange barbed words, but they carried less vitriol now. This might’ve been aided by the fact that the next time Ratchet attempted to cook a meal over a fire, he’d barely set down the pan before Drift had awkwardly shuffled forward, almost with an air of shyness to him, and politely muttered, “I can cook, if you’d like.”

“You? Really?” Ratchet’s skeptical eyebrow seriously threatened to disappear into his shaggy blonde bangs, but his frown wasn’t one of disapproval. “I thought that you’d be pretty adverse to ‘women’s work’.”

“Yeah, like you’re really gonna be taking a bunch of women into a war camp for manning the kitchens-” Drift spat back, caught himself with a grimace, and smacked himself in the forehead (inadvertently with the freshly-killed wood pigeons in his hand) with a grumble. “Sorry, I’m just trying to be nice. I don’t mind cooking, honestly.” In agitation, he ran his free hand through dirty, stringy dark hair that seemed to be clumping together in tandem to how his fingers combed through the strands.

Ratchet stared up at the shuffling Drift for a good few seconds, like he was expecting the Northerner to lose his temper or do some sort of double-take as a cruel joke, but no; the medic stood up with a slight groan and popped his back. “Best of luck, kid. Maybe you’ll surprise us again.” He moved away from his seat around their small campfire. “Be my guest.”

As a surprise to Ratchet, the three wood pigeons proved more than sufficient for their collective pallets. Crispy skin and succulent meat left little more than bone at the conclusion of their meal. “First a musician, then a cook,” Orion mumbled in admiration, scraping grit from the inside of his gelding’s hooves. “You have many impressive talents, young man. You seem to have gotten a very extensive education.”

It may have been a blessing that nobody was really paying attention to Drift’s face in the firelight, for the blood draining away from shock had almost rendered him a deathly pallor. Eyes glazed over with haunted reminiscence, and a cold sweat broke out. His vision was becoming obscured with black spots and flame as the young swordsman stared into their dying campfire. Breathing was becoming a lot harder to remember to do, what with Orion having been in his thoughts. Gods, how much had the Autobot seen inside his head? How much about Drift did he know or not know? Was any part of him safe anymore-

“Drift?” A steadying, young hand was on his shoulder, snapping him out of his stress-induced trance. “Are you alright?” In one of the rare times that he wasn’t rhyming, Wheelie looked down on him, young green eyes intense with their concern.

“Yeah,” the Rodian choked, shrugging the youth’s hand off his shoulder and standing up. “Just more tired than I thought.” Not a lie, certainly, because it felt like all of his limbs had been weighed down with trebuchet stones. However, even after the other three had settled into their post-dinner comas for the evening and Drift had settled against Gasket’s side for his own slumber, it took him most of the evening to finally calm himself enough to slip away from consciousness.

* * *

 

The next day, a certain facet of their travels that they had been neglecting caught up with the four riders. True, the temperature was pleasant here, they were sheltered from direct sunlight by the forest canopies, and bandits were virtually nonexistent in this particular forest, but there was something off about it. The birds were singing, the sunshine filtered beautifully through the canopy, and the air positively reeked of human body odor. As it turns out, the dry heat and constant winds of the desert do a wondrous job in stealthily building up sweat without allowing the nose to detect it. It just so happened that now, with the riders having moved into the more humid, still-aired forest, was the time that particular powderkeg was set alight.

Simply put, it was positively rank. In more vivid detail, the four man caravan smelled like an unfortunate blend of human sweat, gas and something that had died a few miles back. It was so bad that the riders were keeping their elbows glued to their sides for fear of unleashing even more of the monstrous stench bottled within.

“So I’ve tried internally doing the math-” Wheelie piped up from the back of the caravan. “I still can’t figure when we next get a bath.”

“I know, kid, I know,” Ratchet huffed. “We ALL know. Just try and tough it out, alright? It’s only another day to Nova Cronum.”

“But my nose is in such pain!” the minstrel grumbled. “Maybe today we’ll get rain?”

“Hrm.” Drift looked up to the canopy, where numerous beams of sunlight were poking through. “Doesn’t really look it, Wheelie.”

Orion turned back and glanced at his adopted son. “Perhaps it might be best if we keep our eyes forward and try not to think about it.”

“That would be a plan worth trying if I didn’t think my nose was dying!” Wheelie flung his arms out in exasperation, a choice he immediately regretted as he was assaulted by his own smell. “Oh, Gods!”

“Come now, Wheelie.” Optimus turned around to face his son again just as he started rounding a curve in the path. “We will endure. The gods show providence to those who show patience, after all. Isn’t that, right, Ratchet?” The medic, however, simply stared at his leader, dumbfounded. “R-... Ratchet?” Orion glanced past the medic over to Drift and Wheelie, who’d both gone just as equally wide eyed- it took a few moments in fact for the lead rider to realize that they were in fact looking past him. Pax turned around and immediately burst into an ear to ear grin- it was nothing short of a small clearing with a beautiful, healthy river running through it! The waters were crystal clear- one could see all the way to the bottom in the parts where the current was slower and there was no glare from the midday sun- and to top it all off the current seemed gentle: strong enough to keep the water from going stagnant, but soft enough that they hadn’t even heard the river's babbling until now, when they were mere yards away from it. “My fellows?” Orion chuckled. “I think it’s high time we all took a-”

“BATH FOR WHEELIE, WATER RUNNING FREE!” Orange clothes were flung every which-way as Wheelie sprinted past the three adults towards the water, ending in a massive spout of water erupting from the middle of the river.

“Wheelie! We don’t know how deep this river is!” Of course Ratchet wasted no time in breaking formation, spurring his mare over to the riverbank and hopping off just in time for Wheelie to stand up, his head and neck popping out of the water in the dead-center deepest part of the river. He even waved at the medic, grinning. “Ah. Well, then…” Ratchet glared at the youngster as Wheelie started doing the backstroke nonchalantly. “I guess I’ll just be tying up your horse,” the medic huffed before leading his own horse to a nearby tree.

“Oh come now, Ratchet, no need to be upset with him.” Orion laughed as he tied his gelding’s reins around a sturdy, low-hanging branch. “He’s just a child after all, and our hygiene is in dire straits.”

“Then he should have grabbed some soap first,” the medic grumbled, grabbing a bar for himself from one of his now-tied mare’s saddlebags and quickly pocketing it before walking over to Wheelie’s piebald. “I’m half certain the boy just wanted to go swimming.”

“Well, swimming is a fair start, at the very least.” Orion shrugged, already pulling off his tunic as he approached the riverbank. “How’s the water, Wheelie?”

“As cool, clear and crisp as an early spring morning,” the minstrel called back, positively beaming. “Although it is a bit chilly, that’s my only warning.”

“Very good, very good.” Orion finally dropped his trousers before finally wading out into the water, a bar of soap in each hand. “Now come here and get your soap. Or have you forgotten why you leapt in in the first place?”

Wheelie shook his head violently. “Do you really think a simple creek will make me forget how badly we reek?” He held out an expectant hand and received his soap with a silent grin.

“Don’t you think you should get in?”

Drift glanced down from atop his saddle at Ratchet, who had paused next to him. “I’m sorry?”

“Look, I’m certain you’re not any fresher than the rest of us,” Ratchet shrugged before holding up a bar of soap. “I’ve got an extra bar, if you need it.”

“Erm…” Drift looked over at the river. It looked so nice, and … but still. “Thank you for the offer, Ratchet, but I think I’ll keep watch.”

“Watch?” The medic cocked an eyebrow at the sellsword. “But there’s nothing he-” He immediately fell silent with Drift’s glare sharpened ever so slightly. A helpless shrug was the medic’s only retort. “Well, alright. Your loss, then.”

As Ratchet strolled past and waded into the water, Gasket swung his head around and shot Drift that look of his’ the one that typically meant “Seriously? You should really take him up on his offer.”

“Oh, don’t you give me that look,” Drift grumbled at his steed, folding his arms and looking anywhere but at the river, where the other three travellers were taking full advantage of the water. Gasket’s only response was to snort at his rider- or at the very least he attempted to snort. The poor mountain horse caught a whiff of Drift mid-snort and had a minor coughing fit instead. Drift couldn’t help but glare flatly down at his steed. True, it hadn’t been intentional, but the message was loud and clear. What was intentional was when Gasket started walking towards the water with Drift still on his back. “Woah, woah, woah!” Drift hopped off the horse as quick as a flash and just stared on as Gasket walked over to the riverbank, pawed the water twice, and shook his saddle while looking his rider dead in the face.

Drift mimicked one of Gasket’s annoyed snorts and turned his back on the old horse. “I said no, Gasket! I don’t need a bath that bad- hey!” Losing his patience, strong teeth latched onto the back of Drift’s long tunic and dragged him backwards through river pebbles and gravel. “Let go, Gasket! I said LET GO!” Drift’s angry pleas were falling on selectively deaf ears, though, and the three Autobot spectators were having a hearty chuckle while they watched the horse-come-nursemaid drag his unwilling charge towards the cover of a large rock, completely ignoring the fact that Drift’s clothes and armor were becoming sodden with the river water.

“Alright, alright!” The angry young Northerner finally roared, and Gasket released his hold on Drift’s tunic, allowing the warrior to fall into the water with a metallic clang of metal on stones. It took a few moments for the sellsword to get back on his feet, rising from the river with water pouring out from between every plate of his armor. “Yeah, Gasket, that’s just what this suit needs, a good soaking! Thing is old enough at it-”

Drift couldn’t help but glare when Gasket rested his large head on the flat top of a sufficiently-sized rock; almost as if to say “Then put it up here, out of the water.”

“Alright, fine.” The sellsword scowled at the horse before he slipped his tunic off and started  undoing the various clasps and buckles securing the armor beneath it. Shoulder and arm-guards were shed quickly and laid out flat to dry, and he grabbed the tunic and ran it through the cold current of the river before also laying the cloth out to dry. The linen shirt underneath, tangy and stained with sweat and blood, received a similar treatment as the tunic, and Drift made sure to carefully wade into the eddy behind the boulder, partially concealed also by Gasket. His undressing- understandably- became somewhat awkward once he got to everything below the waistline, but he eventually managed to strip down to his skin. In jest, he shook out his sopping-wet smallclothes at the horse who was preserving his (somewhat ruined) sense of modesty. “There. Happy now?”

Gasket just whinnied and shook his head, the rings on his bridle jingling and water droplets flicking everywhere.

Drift threw his arms up in the air. “Then what in the hells do you want?”

The horse huffed before reaching his head around and making a big show of trying to bite at his saddle fastenings. It turned out, by a sorry act of miscommunication with his temperamental rider, that he’d actually been saying “get me out of this thing.”

The sellsword couldn’t help but raise an irritated eyebrow. “Are you being serious right now?” He folded his arms and simply glared at the horse before reaching up towards Gasket’s saddle, brushing his hand against the buckle, and grabbing a bar of soap from a saddlebag, and turning away from the now-gobsmacked mountain horse. Gasket let out a whinny of protest and pawed at the water like a foal, to no real effect aside from a smirk from Drift. “You know what?” the sellsword chuckled, “You’re being a pain in my ass, and I’m the one with the thumbs here. I’ll make you wait for a bath all damned day if you keep that up.”

If it was possible for a horse to pout, Gasket was doing just that. Sullenly, much like a child being scolded for throwing an unnecessary tantrum, Gasket huffed and set his muzzle to water to drink.

“You know, that’s probably not the best idea.” Ratchet called over from further up the river, addressing Drift. “And it’s not like you’d be showing us anything new. Why not come out from behind the rock, eh?”

“Thanks for the suggestion, but I think I’ll pass!” Drift barked back before looking down at himself. True, there were the muscles and the like that he’d worked hard to hone over his life, but there were also the obvious holdovers from his gender of origin. Or rather, the lack thereof of the most obvious, considering the two sizeable, linear scars on his chest thanks to the removal of certain physical assets. True, he’d gotten used to the scars over the years, but he’d never gotten used to other’s reactions towards them. Namely because most who’d gotten the chance to react wound up dead, but sti- why are there black things in the water- PRIMUS!

Drift shot out from behind the rock as quick as a flash, swimming to the middle of the river where the current was strongest. He watched the black, squirming leeches through the crystal clear water as they struggled against the current before finally being swept downriver. It took but a moment for Gasket to follow his lead and walk out into the middle of the river, reaching his rider just as Drift finished looking himself over for any of the little black parasites.

“Let me guess. Praxian Leeches, right?” Ratchet called over, scrubbing at his chest with his bar of soap and smirking. “Sorry. I’d have warned you sooner, but I assumed you’d have known and gotten away from that calm patch on your own.”

“Well, what a sterling deduction on your part!” Drift shouted back angrily as he checked Gasket’s legs for any of the creepy little bastards (using the horse’s muscular barrel and legs as a cover for his naked body also didn’t hurt). “Don’t know if you’re aware of this, Ratchet, but up North, we don’t have parasites. Not the waterborne type, at least. Seems like even the wildlife has more honor back home.”

Orion raised a hand, silencing the irate medic (who’d taken a breath to retaliate, his face going beet-red) “Well, that’s good to know!” the leader shouted back, ending the fight before it could even begin between the medic and their add-on.

“Well that’s good to know,” Drift muttered to himself in falsetto mockery, finally getting around to cleaning himself. Luckily he hadn’t dropped his soap in his panicked escape from the leeches. It didn’t really take all that long to get clean, to be perfectly honest, and thankfully he was able to keep using Gasket as cover the entire time. A linen shift, faded and worn, was pulled from the saddle, and Drift was suitably covered while his tunic and armor continued to dry.

Gasket pawed at the water again impatiently, shoving his saddle up against his rider and nickering. With great glee, the saddle, saddle blanket, and bridle were finally removed and set aside to be rubbed down separately, and Gasket waded away from the shallows and into the deeper current of the river. Cool water washed over the horse’s broad back, soothing some mild saddle sores that were inevitable, even with his high-quality blanket, and washing away his own substantial sweat and filth accumulated over weeks of constant travel. Even without the ability to properly scrub himself, Gasket’s dull grey coat began to shine a light pewter. Dripping and damp, the horse waded back up to the shallows and was greeted with a coarse brush through his fur. With concentration and great care, Drift ran the bristles over most of Gasket’s body, quick yet thorough and methodical in his application. The horse even did him a ‘favor’, bent down, and rolled onto his side in a bid for Drift to scrub at his belly, thus muddying up the side of his body that had just been brushed. Much good-natured cursing and yelling permeated the calm atmosphere when Drift scrambled onto his horse’s solid body, scratching him with blunt fingernails that had no chance in actually injuring his most trusted companion.

Drift was so engrossed in grooming Gasket that he never even heard the light splashing behind him. “It’s been bothering me, just what breed is he?”

“GAH!” Drift simply fell off of Gasket in shock, landing face-first in the water as the horse scrambled onto his feet. The sellsword looked up at the source of the noise as he stood back up from the water, and he looked dead at Wheelie as the young boy reluctantly reached up to pet the horse. Gasket on the other hand just rolled his eyes, irritated at being interrupted. “Um, he’s...some sort of destrier, I think.” Drift offered before getting back on his feet and getting back to running the course brush through re-muddied fur.

“Ah, a war horse!” Wheelie grinned. “I’ve seen very few, of course.”

“Well, yes, they’re not that common.” Drift admitted as he continued brushing. Then he glanced down at the boy, an eyebrow cocked. “But they shouldn’t be that rare. You’ve never seen one, before?”

“Warhorses rarely are seen in a minstrel’s domain.” Wheelie shrugged. “Mind if I ask from whence he was obtained?”

Drift was silent for a moment, his face having gone stone-straight as he kept brushing. “Yes, I mind,” he said to the minstrel, but it wasn’t with venom or anger; just a tone of finality.

The minstrel just shrugged in silence and went back to petting Gasket, having worked his way back to the warhorse’s flank. Then (unfortunately for him) he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. He glanced up at Drift, then back down, then back up at Drift. “Friend, I don’t want to make you panic, but I do believe something has stolen your- GAH!” and Wheelie was completely blindsided as Gasket hip-checked Wheelie back into the water. It took a moment for the minstrel to sit back up. It took no time at all after that for a sizeable trout to leap out of the water in shock, smack Wheelie across the face with the flat of its tail, and vanish back into the river.

“Huh.” Drift raised an eyebrow before shouting up the river. “Hey, Pax! I’ve got an idea for dinner!” Then he went back to grooming Gasket. “Thanks, by the way.”

Gasket simply responded with a light snort and buffeted against Drift’s hand, encouraging him to resume his brushing.

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, catching fish wasn’t as difficult as one might think. The river was home to many of them, and they were eager to bite on the worms (unearthed by Wheelie) that had been put on Orion’s hook (a simply iron hook with a long, flaxen line that Orion had kept handy.) Spending time as a dockworker meant you learned to fish, more often than not. Over the past hour he’d pulled four fish out of the river, gripping the line with nothing more than his bare hands. There were two rockbass and a trout sitting fully-roasted and seasoned on three plates next to Drift, with a walleye still skewered over the fire, well on it’s way to being done cooking. “So. How’s the armor doing?”

Ratchet had been washing the group’s clothing in the nearby river while Orion fished. He even set up a simple clothesline between two nearby trees to help dry them out (Drift’s waterlogged armor, in particular). The medic reached up from his seat on a rock to check on the suit’s progress, only to shake his head. “Padding’s still pretty damp. May need to dry overnight.”

“You see what you do, Gasket?” Drift tiredly glanced over at his steed. “Now I’ve got to wear this ridiculous outfit all night!” the sellsword pulled at the neck of his current garb- one of Orion’s spare outfits. To be perfectly honest, the red tunic and blue trousers were pretty comfortable (it seemed almost too comfortable to be something a simple guardsman would be able to afford, not that he was complaining). The problem was that Drift was more keenly aware now than ever of the size difference between Orion and himself; the warrior’s tunic fit him like a set of monk’s robes, with excess fabric sagging in abundance.

Gasket just looked over at Drift with a mouthful of grass with a flat look in his eyes before going back to grazing, totally indifferent.

“You know what, I’ll be remembering that, buddy.” Drift shot a vaguely threatening grin at the horse, to no real effect.

“Father, are you sure I’m doing this right?” Wheelie called over from the riverbank. “I haven’t gotten a single bite!”

Orion glanced up at his foster son from where he was leaning against a nearby tree, journal in hand. “You’ve been jigging the line against the current every so often, right? You’re sure your line hasn’t stuck in the bottom?”

“From your fishing technique I know all of the rules!” the minstrel whined. “What do you take me for, some kind of foo-” the boy immediately fell silent as an experimental tug on the line revealed that yes, indeed the line had caught on something solid. “Oh, dear. I’m wrong, it would appear.”

Orion simply grinned as he set his journal aside and walked over to Wheelie. “Here, let me help you with that.”

Drift and Ratchet both glanced over at the scene before going back to their respective chores. “So…” the medic probed. After a few moments of silence, he coughed and carried on. “They have any of these fish up north?”

“Most of them, yes.” Drift nodded, not even taking his eyes off his cooking. “Lot of fish missing down here, though.”

Ratchet raised an eyebrow as he glanced over at the Northerner. “Such as?”

“Well, the most notable missing breed would be the daggerfangs. Ever hear of them?” Drift was sure to kept his back turned from the medic as he spoke; it kept his grin hidden.

“No, no I haven’t.” Ratchet grimaced at the sellsword, guessing what was to come next. “They agressive?”

“Oh, maliciously so.” Drift nodded. “Imagine an alligator gar, right? Now give them bigger, razor-sharp teeth perfect for taking of limbs and a crushing bite. Now make them incredibly ill-tempered.” Drift poked at the walleye, checking how tender the flesh still was. “That’s a daggerfang. Your Walleye’s done, by the by.”  

Ratchet put a hand to his mouth and called over to Orion and Wheelie. “Dinner’s made!” The only real answer he got was a thumbs-up from Orion as he and Wheelie struggled to unsnag the fishing line. “So, I take it these things are a bit of a hazard?” Ratchet asked, “The Daggerfangs, I mean.”

“Oh yeah, unbelievably so.” Drift nodded sagely as he slit the roasted walleye off the skewer and onto the final wooden plate. “Back up north, all the freshwater fishermen carry hooks and short-swords. You see, not only is this fish incredibly dangerous; I can vouch first hand that it is delicious if cooked properly. Trout or rockbass?” Drift asked, already cutting meat off of the walleye for himself.

“Rockbass, please. Is there an improper way to cook it?” Ratchet asked as he grabbed one of said meals by the plate.

Drift nodded with a mouthful of fish (crisp, light, but not too bland). “Sure is. If you fillet it wrong, you’ll burst the venom sacks.”

“Oh, so it’s toxic, too?” Ratchet asked, grimacing.

“Oh yeah!” Drift smiled as he cut into his meal again. The medic had no idea. “Thankfully it’s pretty easy to tell when you’ve screwed it up: it’s a corrosive toxin, so it starts to melt your knife’s blade when you botch a cut.

At this Ratchet glanced over at the sellsword, eyebrow raised. And Drift just stared dead back at him with an impish grin. Ratchet looked down at his meal. Then back at Drift, who was now struggling to not laugh (and failing). Then he looked back down at his plate, gritting his teeth. “You know, I never knew rockbass tasted so good when served with a line of bullshit.”

Drift finally burst out into a youthful, booming laugh just as Orion and Wheelie returned from the shore. They were short one hook, not that anyone seemed to notice. “What’s the joke?” Orion looked between the two, more than a little confused.

“Nothing, nothing,” Drift chuckled from behind a hand, his face crimson. “You’d had to have heard it.”

“I suppose I would’ve had to,” Pax smiled at the innocent fun that Drift was having with Ratchet. That smile looked youthful, though not innocent, but Orion liked to see people smile. To him, the world was so much happier when everybody had something to smile about. Back in Iacon, he’d foregone the tradition of his Prime predecessors for having grand dramas and tragedies performed at state dinners, and instead favored comedians and tricksters to perform. It certainly had improved the mood of his most recent wedding from a dour, mournful affair into something that at least attempted to be happy, prior circumstances aside.

Orion picked at his rockbass with his small carving knife, slow and methodical for savoring the taste. Drift’s cooking, and indeed his other surprising talents, made him a remarkable individual. He might not talk about his education, but even with the sense of an impoverished beginning that he’d gleaned from Drift’s thoughts, he possessed a more eclectic set of skills than any one noble might specialize in. Eclectic, but not specialized. His fighting was good, but it wasn’t suited for battlefield warfare. He had a general knowledge of the South’s culture and customs, but it was twisted by his experiences with prejudice and lack of a proper guide. The young man, even without considering possibly being noble by adoption, would benefit from a good education.

How to pitch this to Drift to make it sound appealing...and how to do it so that Ratchet wouldn’t kill him in his sleep?

“Drift,” Orion set down his knife down on his wooden plate very carefully. “What do you plan on doing once you return to the North?”

The change was immediate; Drift’s relaxed, joking nature tensed up into a guarded, borderline-aggressive mood. “‘dunno,” he finally shrugged, subtly shifting his body away from Pax and more towards Gasket; clearly, he was prepared to make a break for it if the need arose. “I’m not going to join the Decepticons, if you’re worried about that-”

“I was not, friend.” Orion held up his hands in a peaceful gesture. “If you had wanted to, I don’t think that you’d have come down here in the first place.” Breathing deeply, Orion set his plan into motion: “I have a job for you, if you’re interested in employment.”

The entire camp fell silent for a precious few seconds after Orion had finished speaking. The entire world waited on baited breath for the Autobot’s offer of employment to tempt the sellsword away from his aimless journey. Brown eyes squinted slightly, but not quite enough to show obvious distrust. Drift’s back straightened as he sat up into a picture of curiosity behind a carefully crafted mask of regal neutrality. Orion had his attention.

“I’ve told you that I am a member of the Primal Vanguard, and it is true.” Ratchet aimed a sharp, alarmed look at Orion, but Pax was two steps ahead of the medic. He wasn’t going to divulge his true position or relationship with the Primal Vanguard right now. “What I haven’t told you is that I am...closely associated with its Intelligence Network.”

Uh oh...Drift’s unimpressed frown had returned. “That’s just a fancy way of saying that you handle the Autobots’ spies or you are one.” Credit to the lad, he was very sharp.

“I apologize for the gilded language,” and Orion at least showed the good grace of being embarrassed by rubbing the back of his head. “I’m usually selling this to nobles, and they have some infatuation with gilded and flowery language.” Note to self: Mirage and Drift would not get along. “There are others who handle sending spies into Decepticon territory to gather intelligence, but we do have spies within the Autobot fiefdoms to prevent...problems.”

“Eliminate the competition, you mean,” Drift growled, curling his hands into fists. Tread carefully, Pax.

“I won’t pretend that there are certain actions that have been taken to preserve the Autobot cause that...may have been less than ideal. However,” he interjected quickly before Drift could be riled further, “our network also has a mission that you might...sympathize with.”

“He means that they hate Naturalists just as much as you do, kid,” Ratchet snapped impatiently. “Pax, stop skirting around the issue like a Consort with too many petticoats.”

“Straight to the point then,” Pax agreed. “Drift, if you are so willing, I will hire you to settle at the Citadel at Nova Cronum and send me reports on the situation there-”

“WHAT?!” both Ratchet and Drift protested; the former look like his face had morphed into a thunderhead, and Drift was not far behind. “Damnit, Orion, I know I said to hurry up but you skipped over a few dozen steps of explanation!” Ratchet seethed at the caravan leader.

Drift was likewise flabbergasted. “Listen old man, I appreciate the help but if you think I’m going to be your cloak-and-dagger you’ve got another thing coming-”

“That’s enough, both of you.” Orion grumbled with hard eyes, holding up a silencing hand. For a moment the camp was totally silent before Pax’s eyes soften and he slumped forward a bit. “Drift. Take a moment and at least consider my offer seriously. That is the only repayment I believe you owe me. Is that too much to ask?”

Ratchet and Drift shot each other sideways glares before redirecting them both at Pax. “Alright then,” the sellsword growled, barely restraining his volume. “Speak.”

“Much obliged.” Orion bowed his head for a moment in thanks before continuing on. “As you may have already guessed, I am no fan of Naturalists. They have a way of sowing division and conflict within perfectly healthy communities wherever they take root. No, most southerners are perfectly content to let the Naturalists go about their business, knowing full well that their spouting is annoying but- ultimately- inconsequential.”

Drift scoffed and rubbed the back of his head, the cut from a few days back had yet to completely heal. “Oh, inconsequential?” The tone of his voice was flat, but his eyes burned with smoldering contempt. “I agree. I never would have even noticed the Naturalists if you hadn’t pointed them out.”

“Yes, Dodge is indeed in a tragic state.” Orion nodded sagely. “And it got that way because years ago, Naturalist preachers took advantage of a tragedy and converted the entire town while driving out any ‘unnaturals.’ I want you to work to make sure this doesn’t happen elsewhere, on a much grander scale. I also feel obliged to point out once more that I’m willing and empowered to pay you quite handsomely.”

“Really…” Drift turned away from the warrior and looked to the fire, his expression turned pensive. “What did you have in mind?”

Orion smiled softly. Hope, maybe? “Nova Cronum is a relatively large city. It’s notable for being home to the Citadel, which houses the major establishments of learning for all of the Consorts and Guardians of the western Autobot territories. Now, what do you think would happen if a Naturalist were to become head of the Citadel?”

“That would probably be disastrous, what with two-thirds of every ruling trine in the south being influenced by a Naturalist. Alright then.” Drift popped his neck to either side and glanced over at Orion with a wicked grin. “You want me to prevent this from happening. Where can I find the candidate?”

“Well you see, about that…” Orion inhaled through his teeth as he put his hands to the back of his head. “He’s kind of already in charge of the place.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Orion,” Ratchet grumped, slapping a palm to his forehead. “Just tell him the job!”

“Yes yes, I was getting to that,” Pax huffed. “Drift. I would like you to attend the Citadel. Specifically, I would like you to enter the Crown of Holly for Guardian training. This position is as close as I can get you to the Naturalists without restricting your movements- and besides, I don’t imagine you’d take kindly to Consort training.” He barely noticed a facial twitch and the way that Drift’s lips pursed together into an awkward expression, but decided to not bring attention to it. “What I want you to do is keep a wary eye on your target and contact me should it seem he’s trying to sway his charges to his way of thinking- excessively, that is. Constructive mentoring according to his beliefs are fine.” Orion glanced over at Drift and smiled warmly. “I can get you the papers proving you to be of a proper lordly house, and while you’re in the Crown you will be well fed, given comfortable quarters. I’ll allot you with a monthly allowance, and you’ll be trained in myriad forms of combat by the scariest woman on the planet.”

Ratchet couldn’t help but release a loud snort, reminiscent of a Clydesdale.

“If nothing else, you can think of it as a chance to increase your skill with your sword arm for free. A useful offer for someone of your profession, and the potential for a very important story to your name. What say you?” Orion offered a hand to the sellsword. It was now or never!

Bringing his hand forward as if being forced to grab something either rotting or poisonous, and with the facial expression to match, Drift thrust his hand forward to join with Orion’s.

  
  



	9. Sons of the Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're off to the northern half of Cybertron, where an entirely new and different set of characters is gearing up for a return to the way things once were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Gumby1011. We hope that you enjoy. 
> 
> Oh, and don't worry, fans of Gasket and company, we'll be returning to your irregularly scheduled Autobot programming next update. But do try to remember what you witness today, we'll be checking in on these guys every now and then.
> 
> ... As an aside, my good friend and co-writer Anna1795 really, REALLY hates Bisk from Transformers: RiD 2015. But then again, who doesn't, really?

The history of the city of Vos had always been a troubled one, even amongst Decepticon fiefdoms. Originally a farming settlement, located in a valley in the shadow of one of the most imposing peaks of the Manganese Mountains, it had the ultimately unfortunate distinction of being within arm's reach of one of the most imposing fortresses on the face of Cybertron: Tagan Heights. This fortress- a massive, sprawling complex that covered the mountain, was filled with all manner of ancient passages, armories, dungeons, and, of course, metal-rich mines. This particular stretch of the Manganese was always seen as blessed by Primus himself- fertile soil, relatively subdued and temperate weather, and the earth beneath Tagan had always yielded spectacular ore- typically iron, ironically- that made Tagan an absolute powerhouse.

The people of Vos for the longest time had been happy to provide Tagan with food in exchange for protection regardless of who held it, really. No matter how many times the fort changed hands. No matter how many times Vos was burned to the ground to weaken Tagan, or invaded for use as a staging area for attacks on the fort. The Vosians carried on that way until roughly thirty years ago. After a decade of abuse at the hands of the latest tenants of Tagan, the Vosian lord (more of a head-farmer really), Red Wing had the next shipment of rations poisoned. That night, with the rest of the able-bodied Vosian fighters alongside him, Red Wing slaughtered all of the Tagan soldiers. Both settlements have been folded into a united Vos ever since.

These days, most of the residents of Vos live in Upper Vos- the former Tagan fortress, reinforced and remade over the last thirty years. The fortress was nowadays seen as nigh-impenetrable- sheer cliffs lay on every side of the mountain-city, leading to thousand-foot drops into jagged rocks below. The only route into the fortress is a single tunnel that leads to the mouth of a cavern at the foot of the valley; a cavern sealed by large, heavy oaken doors and the cave itself filled with so many traps as to be unassailable for an outsider. It was here that the unwavering, treacherous nature of the Decepticons was given physical form. It was here that the Decepticons’ terrible, honorable nature was best exemplified. It was here that the Decepticon cause would be rekindled in the memory of the man who had united the fiefdoms in the north against Iacon’s tyranny in the first place.

Up in the stone courtyard of the Vosian Palace, a crowd was gathered. They’d been called from all around the Northern Fiefdoms to this place. In the crisp, thin mountain air under a gray, murky morning sky, their collective breaths came out as small puffs of fog rising to meet their sullen brethren above. The assembled Decepticons shuffled in place, uneasy. Some were questioning why they had come. Some were questioning why they hadn’t come sooner. Others were just anxious to get the damned show started already. All eyes were on the large wooden stage that had been erected by the main doors that lead inside the palace.

With the ponderous, weighted sound of heavy, iron-bound wood scraping across worn granite, the entire courtyard went silent. A slim, prowling silhouette sauntered out of the palace proper, flanked by his two most loyal men: the leader of this rag-tag rebellion against a rebellion. The only man with the charisma, the power, the influence and the know-how to bring them all together; the man who those traitors back in Tarn would do well to fear. Starscream, son of Red Wing and lord of the Seekers Trine, glided up on to the ramshackle stage set up just in front of the doors, the picture of deadly Decepticon grace. Consort Skywarp hung on one arm, and their Guardian, Thundercracker stood just behind them. Their similar pointed chins, pale faces, pointed noses, and sinister eyes lent to various rumors that they were in fact brothers; no one had broached the topic aloud to the Ruling Trine of Vos after the first drunkard had been violently and publicly executed. All three stood clad in full, glistening ceremonial battleplate (red and white, purple and gray, and blue and gray, respectively). At the mere sight of these legendary warriors- now shunned and exiled from the traitorous Decepticon Army proper- the assembled Northerners felt a swell of hope and pride. Surely, if these paragons of men were being cast aside, something had gone dreadfully awry. Surely this must be the result of some mortal wrongdoing and not a blanket curse by the gods. _Surely, all this was not our fault…_

The general clamour among those attending went silent as a tomb at the sound of Starscream clearing his voice, and he held up a metallic-clawed hand. “Good morning, my brothers and sisters,” the seeker-lord called out in that curiously reedy-yet-powerful voice that echoed across the courtyard. “I would say that I hope that you’ve all had a pleasant journey to Vos, but… You and I, we know that probably didn’t happen.” Starscream sighed for a moment, pinching his nose before looking out over the crowd. There were so many Decepticons standing before him, but few were the true warriors that he’d been hoping for. They were in dented armor, carrying rusty swords, many of them too young to have seen battle or too old to still be fit for it. They’d all undergone such abuse at the hands of the usurpers that it was obvious, as strong a confirmation as any words could have ever offered.

“As it is, you all stand in a skeleton city. You know that,” Starscream nodded as the crowd’s volume swelled. “We stood against Gigatron’s rejection of his brother’s dying wishes, and as the price of our undying loyalty, we have all been branded traitors. Cast out from our home fiefs, left out in the wilderness to fend for ourselves.” Starscream’s head bowed ever-so slightly as his red eyed closed. “In my arrogance, I somehow imagined myself immune to this, but in the end… You know how this story goes. In my hubris, I got myself and my entire _city_ outlawed. Deserted by my lesser subjects out of fear for their very lives. But you…” Starscream looked out among the crowd, a grin on his face. “You all have nothing more to fear. You’ve _already_ been slated for death.”

Among the crowd a low, apprehensive rumble grew in volume. After all, while Starscream did speak the truth, it’s not like it was a particularly comfortable truth. As a matter of fact most of the assembled ‘Cons had been perfectly comfortable to just put it out of their minds and move forward. Starscream raised his hands in hopes of quieting the mob, and to his credit it worked- slowly the murmuring died down. “You have nothing to fear, however! We’ve all had to start anew, in one way or another.” The seeker-lord held up his hands as if testing the weight of two things. “On the one hand, there’s all of you, who have been cast out of your homes. On the other hand there’s me, the lord with barely any subjects left and a city _full_ of empty houses. And I think-” Starscream folded his hands, lacing his fingers together and steepling his index fingers beneath his nose. “That we can come to an arrangement that’ll help all of us. I want to give you all homes. I would love nothing more than to see Vos back to its beautiful hustle and bustle that I was raised in. But in exchange, I ask of you all but one thing.”

Here it was. The clincher moment. Everybody in the crowd tensed, ready to have their expectations and hope shattered. There was no such thing as a free ride in the North. Never from a lord, and especially not from Starscream. Here’s where he’d ask for undying loyalty, free labor, high taxes and everything else. But still… were his eyes always that desperate in spite of their vibrant redness?

“Don’t forget about Galvatron,” It was a call that sounded more like a quiet plea than a request. “I know that that may seem like a simple thing to ask, but as the rest of the North has shown, apparently it can be easy to forget about that man. Forget about all he gave to us. Forget about all he gave _for_ us.” With a wry smirk Starscream looked out around among the crowd. “Galvatron may have fallen. But I, Starscream, would like to now lead the Decepticons in accordance with his last wishes. If you’d all have me now, I’d already be ruling the best of the best. The Decepticons Galvatron started the war for. The humble, the honorable, and the ever-faithful Brothers and Sisters of the North.” The Seeker raised his arms up over the crowd as they buzzed with excitement and, yeah, a little bit of hope. “In that regard alone, you all deserve to hold yourselves with pride! But of course, pride alone won’t arm us in our battles, this I know.” Starscream tapped a single, blue-armored finger against his temple as he spoke with a smirk.

“Which is why I’m proud to say we count some of Cybertron’s greatest warriors among our ranks! Erm…” The Lord put a hand over his eyes as he looked out into the audience. “Scrapper, wherever did you and your men get t- ah! There they are.” Starscream pointed to where a bright-green-painted gauntlet had raised up above the crowd. “The Devastators are among us, for one.” A couple loud cheers and whistles went up from the audience- this was great news indeed! One of the legendary Combiner clades, warriors who were said to fight as if they were one being. “Yes, Scrapper and his party are going to be in charge of training up any of the non-warriors among you. I don’t mean to alarm, but we will need as many hands on the battlefield as we can muster in the coming days. Also, I’m glad to say my faithful Combaticons have agreed to stay, as they will be in charge of security here in the city, and I’ve heard the Dyno-”

_Starscream._

The Seeker winced at the thought asserting itself to the fore of his mind. His entire expression scrunched up from one of enthusiasm to one of annoyed determination. No. Not now. He forced the grin back on his face as he addressed his public. “Pardon me, sudden headache. Anyways, the Dynocons have also pledged their-”

_Starscream. This is imperative._

The Lord of Vos couldn’t help but wince again. The man had never learned to keep his messages from being so damned overpowering, after all. The leader took a deep breath.

“Is everything alright, dear?” Skywarp asked of Starscream, only a shadow of his normal mockery ringing through his voice. “This is a pretty important speech.”

_This cannot be ignored._

“I know it is.” Starscream hiss-whispered back at his Consort. “Try telling _him_ that.”

A frustrated sigh hissed off behind them as Thundercracker shifted his weight from side to side. “The old fart only bothers you if you let him.”

_There is a spy among them._

Starscream’s eyes went a fraction wider as he turned to face his Guardian. “Yes, yes he does. However, at least he seems to think he has a good reason to do so, this time.” The Lord of the ruling Seeker Trine then just looked past his Guardian to the royal-blue-and-light-gray armored figure striding out of the front gate of Vos Keep. He was a tad on the small side, even in his battleplate, and he walked with the slightly-waddling-gait of a fit man whose knees hadn’t stayed quite as fit as the rest of him in his growing age. Starscream wasn’t impressed at the figure. Not. One. Bit.

As a matter of fact, he simply turned back to the crowd, the most forced of grins on his face. “And speaking of familiar, powerful Decepticons we’re _lucky_ to have, who could forget about Galvatron’s most faithful advisor- aside from maybe me, of course.” Starscream gave a smarmy smile as the man slowly stepped onto the stage to the protest of his joints. Yellow eyes shifted to scan the entire crowd from between a royal-blue helm and gray-painted faceplace.He stood about a head shorter than Starscream (who wasn’t large by any means), and his primitive, blocky armor didn’t do much to alleviate that fact. The simply-styled breastplate’s distinctive black rectangle with gold borders (and the obligatory Decepticon Crest) sunk in among the audience, as did the falcon with graying feathers and the red jesses that rested on the man’s shoulder. Then Starscream said the name everybody was thinking and confirmed their fears and hopes. “Let’s give a warm welcome to Soundwave, everybody!”

Nobody gave Soundwave a warm welcome. Nobody gave him _any_ welcome. In fact, everybody in the audience was doing their damndest not to think about anything at all in the presence of this legendary mentalist. People said that he could hear a person’s thoughts just by looking at them, that he could see through the eyes of his falcon, Razorbeak, no matter how far apart they were, that he could replay a person’s memories for all to hear, that he felt no pain he didn’t want to, and that he could scramble a man’s brain with his merest touch until it oozed out of their noses and ears.

Typically? People were _right._

“Oh come now, come now. It’s not like he bites!” Starscream insisted to the audience, running a gauntleted palm over his exasperated face.

“No.” The flat, monotone mumble perfectly echoed the unchanging visage of Soundwave’s helm. “Razorbeak does.”

Starscream let out an exasperated sigh before turning back to face the old mentalist. “Mind telling me exactly why you decided the entire clan should accompany you?”

The words somehow broke the spell and caused the rest of the crowd to stop ogling Soundwave so they could notice the movement among the crowd’s perimeter. Two armored figures milled about. They actually were built a lot like the old man, although they were truly small- even a head shorter than Soundwave himself, by the looks of it. First, the man in red and black with a large, black mountain cat trailing just behind him: Rumble and Ravage. Then, there was the young woman in blue and purple on the other side of the crowd, with the gold-jessed, dark tawny eagle perched on her gloved forearm: Frenzy and Buzzjaw. Any one of them individually? Unassuming and probably easy to defeat. All assembled in one place? They were the stuff of a non-mentalist’s nightmares.

The crowd actually pulled in close at this, like a flock of sheep sidling uneasily from the wolves. Starscream just shook his head before snapping his fingers and calling out to the pink-and-brown armored man standing above the gate to the courtyard. “Vortex, close it, if you would be so kind.” A thumbs up from the guard prefaced a pull of a lever, and the heavy iron grating came crashing down. “Stay calm, everybody, stay calm!” The ruler raised his arms, attempting to quiet the crowd. “Soundwave has detected a single spy in our midst, all but one of you will come to no harm, be patient while we sort this situation out.”

“I dunno, boss, they’re not lookin’ that patient.” Rumble muttered with a manic grin as he and Ravage split and circled the crowd from opposite directions. “A lot of these guys are lookin’ pretty anxious, ain’t they, sis?”

“I do believe you’re correct, brother.” Frenzy chuckled from her side of the crowd. There was no way she could have heard him from that far off, right? “But to be fair, they are a bit scared of _us,_ ” she purred threateningly, a dark and husky sound. With a jossle of her bird-arm, Buzzjaw flew up into the sky with a screech. “Go! Find us this exemplar of infidelity!”

Soundwave, for his part, leapt down from the stage, ignoring his aching knees, and didn’t break eye-contact with the crowd. “Razorbeak: Ascend.” Without a droning word more, his faithful falcon took to the air. “Operation: Identify.”

“Papa, we gotta talk about your wordin’ skills.” Rumble sighed as he got uncomfortably close to an older man with graying hair. “How you gonna to impress Mama with your poems if you can’t rub more than two words together when she’s gone?”

Frenzy rolled her eyes before releasing the chin of the younger man she’d been scanning from her cruelly-pointed gauntleted fingers. “Oh please, Rumble, as if you’re one to say anything about proper grammatical structure.”

The spat probably would have gone on had a good chunk of the crowd not started to wonder whoever would be able to procreate with such a terrifying man. It was a collective thought strong enough that Rumble, Frenzy and Soundwave all gave the crowd the same flat look and sighed “Really?” When talking about Soundwave and his kin, though, one couldn’t help it. Whoever could have been seduced and bedded by the cold, dull, fanatical Master of Communications? Whoever she had been, judging by the twin terrors, she had either been on the bad side of plain or frighteningly beautiful (for Rumble and Frenzy, respectively).

As it just so happened, the crowd’s distraction was a stroke of luck. While the mob’s general mindset burst into a scrambling, chaotic grab-bag of feminine attributes, only one mind stayed sharply focused on the danger the six sinister figures posed. It was for this exact reason that Rumble, Frenzy and Soundwave’s eyes all honed in on a man in the middle of the crowd. He was in blood-orange colored armor with frantic, bright blue eyes and ginger hair. This Decepticon looked around at the three hunters, eyes bulging hard enough as to threaten fleeing from his skull. Not a minute later he was off, worming his way through the crowd as fast as he could. The sound of Ravage’s growling growing into a scratchy roar was enough to scatter the herd of Decepticons away from the rogue as Rumble pointed at him, shouting “Go on, get ‘im!”

In but a moment of panicked fleeing, the suspected-spy had grabbed onto the iron grating, trying frantically- desperately- to lift the gate. He glanced into the guardhouse at the side of the wall, but before he could so much as begin to plea for the guard to open the door Ravage was upon him. The big cat’s claws scraped ineffectively against the man’s armor, but his teeth found purchase: they clamped down on the back of the man’s neck, prying him away from the bars as he hollered in terror. For a few moments they sat there like that- Ravage holding the man in place as if he were a disobedient kitten.

“Hah, good kitty!” Rumble praised as he and Frenzy drew close to the cat. “Hold ‘im there, just like that, yeah?” He ignored the orange-armored man’s subdued squirming as he tried to escape.

Frenzy, on the other hand... “Now now, I wouldn’t do that, friend.” She got on her hands and knees and looked dead into the man’s terrified eyes from mere inches away. “You see, Ravage here has teeth that are incredibly sharp, and also quite close to both your jugular veins. So I’d stop struggling, were I you,” the mentalist purred. “What’s your name?”

“B-b-b-Bisk,” The spy uttered out between teeth shivering in terror, his eyes bulging.

Frenzy slowly pulled the point of her index-finger along the man’s jawline, tracing a barely-perceptible line of blood “Huh. What a peculiar name… Ravage?” The big cat released the man’s neck, but before he could so much as twitch Frenzy had lashed out, digging her gauntlet’s pointed finger-tips into the man’s chin and jawline. Tiny rivulets of blood began to flow from under her fingertips as Frenzy stood up; Bisk being forced into an awkward, hunched over stance as the small woman held his head level with hers. “He says his name is Bisk!” Frenzy called out towards the stage as she started dragging him towards it. The suspected traitor was keenly aware of both the panther and other spiteful midget behind him, not to mention the two lethal raptors circling above.

“Hrm… Not a name I’m familiar with.” Starscream pondered, tapping his very pointed chin. “Does that ring a bell?” He asked of his Consort and Guardian, both of whom shook their heads. “Soundwave, how about you?” He called into the crowd.

 _“Negative.”_ The word was a mumble, but with the mentalist’s powers all heard it clear as if he’d whispered in into their ears.

The Seeker lord just shrugged before snapping his fingers at Frenzy. “Very well then. Bring him up, we’ll find out what’s what.” The crowd parted with almost violent enthusiasm as Soundwave’s clan cut clean through them and up to the stage. It was common knowledge that one never got in the way of these peoples’ duties if you valued your life. Or your sanity, for that matter. Rumble and Frenzy threw Bisk up to the stage and took a few steps back into the front row of the crowd, before Soundwave walked out from between them and climbed back on stage. By then a second-long attempt at a bolt had resulted in both Skywarp and Thundercracker holding Bisk by his shoulders, with Starscream standing arms-folded in front of him. “So tell me, my bright-armored friend…” The lord muttered, a smirk on his face. “Why are you here, exactly? First chance.”

Bisk looked up at Starscream, teeth chattering with fear and eyes mildly confused at that last quip. “I-I’m here because I used to live out in Kaon before Gigatron took over.” The suspect’s eyes nervously glanced over at Soundwave, who was standing just behind Starscream now. “A group of friends and I refused to serve in the southern invasion armies, and we were exiled for it-”

“False,” Soundwave mumbled, but it still felt like a damning lightning strike.

Starscream couldn’t help but sigh and pinch the bridge of his hooked nose again. Immediately recomposing himself, he reached out with an armored backhand, striking Bisk’s cheek with a resounding clang. “I’ll let you try that again. I value honesty, my friend. Second chance.”

“Okay, okay, sorry,” Bisk shuddered. He took a couple deep breaths before carrying on. “I was exiled for cowardice. I didn’t want to go sou-”

“False.”

Starscream didn’t hesitate before hauling back and punching Bisk in the nose, breaking it with a sickening crack. “You know,” he whispered softly over Bisk’s whimpers and the steady drip of blood down his face, “I very much despise snivelling, lying cowards.” The ginger gargled on the flood spilling through his lips, letting it dribble down his face and his chin and onto Starscream’s mail gloves. The Lord of Vos gave the traitor in his grip a sickening grin. “One last chance, Bisk. Don’t screw it up for yourself, or the punishment will not be kind.”

The rogue wheezed, spitting up a blob of blood before continuing. “Alright… Alright… Fine. I’m to report on your location, okay?” Bisk’s blue bug-eyes closed, resigned. “I’m under orders from my contact in Tarn.”

“Oh, is that a fact?” Starscream asked with a cruel grin. “I don’t suppose you know the name of this contact, do you?”

“Of course I don’t.” Bisk spat, blood alongside it. His voice still wavered, of course, but there was definite resentment mixed in, now. “You know your days are numbered, right? My contact is under royal authority, Gigatron is gonna rip you all limb from limb!” He shot a glare over at Soundwave “There, are you happy with the truth in _that_ , you fucking _freak?_ ”

Soundwave just impassively looked from the spy to Starscream. “His confession is true.” The mutter doned out over the dead-silent crowd like the largest Primus bell of a temple. Then the entire front row took a giant step back. There was only one way for this to end.

Starscream shook his head, still grinning nastily. “Well then, traitor, whatever shall we do with-” The lord couldn’t help but fall silent again when Bisk spat a wad of blood onto the seeker’s face. For a moment, the two just glared at one another before Starscream sighed deeply. “Alright, well, fuck you too, then.” The lord whipped the spy around and threw him off the stage by his neck, the unfortunate traitor landing square at Rumble and Frenzy’s feet. “Children, do dispose of this garbage, will you?” Starscream ordered as he reached up to wipe the blood off his face.

Frenzy let out a piercing whistle, and Buzzjaw swooped out of the sky and flew straight into the traitor’s face. For a moment the man struggled with the flailing bird as the twins and Ravage drew closer with almost cruel slowness. The raptor screeched like something from the depths of the deepest hell as Bisk screamed his lungs out. Then there was a disgusting, fleshy tearing sound followed by two _pops_ as Buzzjaw flew off, freshly-removed, buggy blue eyes clenched firmly in his talons.

Not a moment later Frenzy raised a hand to the traitor, causing him to wail out again in anguish as he slowly, involuntarily got on his knees, then his hands and knees, then laid flat on the ground. Then she straddled on top of him before bending down to whisper into his ear. “With no eyes, you can’t see what to report to your precious ‘contacts.’ But that doesn’t solve everything, does it?” Her frigid, beautiful face split into a dangerous, eager grin. “You can still hear us, after all.” The waif sat back up straight on her knees and put a clawed hand to each of the spy’s ears. Bisk wailed as each of the metal tips on the gloved fingers tapped and ripped their ways into the soft skin of his large ears before ripping them off with a swift, sudden tear. Half of the crowd averted their eyes from the sad, sorry scene. You could even hear muffled screaming fade into sobbing into the dirt as Bisk laid there, blood oozing from the sides of his head. Frenzy stood up and glanced over at her brother. “Would you like to finish the job on this one? I think it’s high time you try out that new trick of yours.”

“With _gusto,_ sister!” Rumble chuckled excitedly. “Say, can you turn him over, quick? Works better from the front.”

Frenzy glanced down at the victim before making a dismissive, turning hand motion. “Of course.”

Under the mentalist’s influence, Bisk rolled over, still whimpering and panting and snotting all over himself. “Thanks, sis!” Rumble piped before getting down on his haunches. He carefully placed a gloved hand on the man’s scuffed orange chest plate and began tapping out a slow, uniform rhythm. _Tap-tap...tap-tap...tap-tap..._ The pattern of his fingers resembled that of a heartbeat, healthy and slow. Rumble stared at Bisk with an intensity that he rarely afforded to anything outside of battle. As he tapped, much like one might see him do on the head of the big war drum that he favored in battle, Bisk’s whimpering slowly fell silent as his breathing regulated. The crowd had no way of knowing for sure, but it almost looked like… It looked like Rumble was _comforting_ Bisk.

Then, the tempo picked up.

Rumble tapped faster. Just slightly faster. Enough for the crowd to realize what he was doing. He tapped faster still on the bronze-orange metal chest plate. The volume of his taps grew ever so slightly. Faster. Bisk’s eyebrow’s crunched, and the tiny pools of blood that had filled his eye sockets bled over slightly. Faster. Rumble’s stare took on an intense fire as he started beating out the rhythm with whole hands. Faster. Rumble had started alternating his hands now. Bisk started growling and squirming even against the mentally paralyzing grip that Frenzy held over him. Even faster now. The beating had coalesced into a single, solid, metallic rumble as percussionist smashed away at the man’s chestplate. Faster, still!

Bisk broke out into a full, writhing, screeching, flailing wreck as Rumble pounded on the man’s chest as hard as he could then- Rumble raised both hands above his head as Bisk took a deep breath. There was a single instant of deafening silence as Rumble curled one fist around the other. Then the midget brought his fists down onto Bisk's chest in a single cacophonous strike. There was a loud, wet pop followed immediately by the rattling, gurgling escape of Bisk’s final, anguished breath being utterly drowned in blood.

Rumble slowly looked up at the crowd. “Sure plays good, don’t it?” He sneered impishly at the audience. Then he unclasped the corpse’s chestplate before removing it. “I like the tone. Think I’ll be keeping this, it’ll make a great drum barrel if I beat it into shape!” The crowd wasn’t very interested in morbid soon-to-be-drums, though. They were much more captivated by the ugly, outward-turned wound through Bisk’s sternum, and the burst pieces of organ, bone, and muscle from where his heart had quite literally exploded from the strain that Rumble had helped inflict upon it.

Starscream couldn’t help but glare at the twins. “ _Really?_ I didn’t mean to do it right _here!_ Why would you even- just-” Skyward tapped Starscream on the shoulder before sweeping his hand upwards and taking a deep breath, which his lord mimicked. after holding it in for a moment or two the consort exhaled, and his lord followed suit. “Alright then. Whew.” Starscream looked out among the crowd. “Sorry about that distraction, everyone! No need to worry about that, the presentation had been just about over anyways. Egh.” The lord put a hand to his face as Ravage clamped his fangs around the corpse’s neck and started dragging him into the castle. “Rumble, I swear to Primus if you let that cat of yours drag a LITERAL bloody swath all over my carpets his pelt will be replacing them TONIGHT! Anyways!” The seeker turned back to the crowd. “I guess if you have to learn something from this, take with you that you can sleep soundly- we will never have any traitors among us in my city, that much I promise you!” The most forced grin in the history of Cybertron wormed its way into the lord’s teeth. “Feel free to head back into the city, and pick whatever vacant houses strike your fancy! Several scribes will be around this time tomorrow to record everyone’s choices, you all get _one_ house. I will not have any property barons lording over my citizens. That means you, Swindle!” The lord shook a fist at one of the Combaticons on the courtyard walls in particular. “And for Solus’ sake, stop slouching and get that gate opened! Can’t you see the crowd is itching to get started. Oh, and welcome to the Sons of Galvatron, everybody!”

Various Decepticons started squeezing out under the gate the instant there was enough room. Some were bolting towards the priciest houses in the city. Most were bolting away from the memory of exactly what had just happened in front of them. No one held any allusions to treachery of their brethren, not when they were all bound by the fear of having their hearts beat themselves to death.


	10. The Guardian's New Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our fine heroes have now found themselves standing at the gates of Nova Cronum. As such, Drift will face his toughest challenge yet in the shape of a simple stroll down the street in an Autobot city. If only the presence of other Decepticons this far south could be considered comforting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by anna1795. We hope that you enjoy!

“I’m glad to have had you on this sabbatical with me, old friend,” Orion rumbled into Ratchet’s ear as they embraced. The guards to the main oaken gates of Nova Cronum glared impassively out into the spruce forest on the outskirts of the enormous city, though he noticed one of them trying not to smile as Wheelie chittered his happy goodbyes to a clearly overwhelmed Drift, promising to visit sometime during one of the Festivals, if he could manage to travel. “You will keep in touch, won’t you?”

“I’ll keep an eye on your little birdy, Prime,” Ratchet whispered back gruffly, clapping a hand against his friend’s back. “And stay out of trouble, won’t you?”

“Winter’s coming in a few months, and the Decepticons will halt their attacks for that time,” Orion sighed gratefully. “I needed the sabbatical, but a few months of reprieve from war will be much needed.”

“So that you can handle all of that _lovely_ drama back at Court, eh?” The Healer forced a snicker through his teeth, but Orion was not blind to the regret and pain still in Ratchet’s words and heart.

“I will come to visit you soon, my friend,” the Prime promised, drawing up the hood of his cloak and whistling to Wheelie. “I’ll give your greetings to Prowl and Jazz both.”

“Please do. And to Mirage, and Ironhide, and-” Ratchet began listing off the names, but Orion just chuckled and waved his hand.

“I will do so, for all of your friends. You do have friends in court, Ratchet,” the Prime promised with a whisper, letting a friendly kiss brush against his Healer’s cheek. “And we all miss you.”

“Someone has to stay here and keep an eye on our ‘ _special friends_ ,’” Ratchet waved the sentiments off, but Prime wasn’t so easily fooled. Ratchet hated the drama of the Prime’s Court and Iacon in general. It was honestly better for him to be so far away, even though so many people honestly missed the grump. He clasped Ratchet’s hands one more time in farewell as Wheelie’s piebald trotted up to join his Guardian.

“Until we meet again, old friend.”

“Likewise.” Ratchet’s farewell smile was small, but its sincerity warmed Orion’s heart in a way that compliments and accolades never had. “I’ll watch the whipper-snapper. Keep an eye out for messenger hawks.”

“That was a long good-bye,” Drift noted as Ratchet joined him. The two of them were the only ones at the huge gate currently, so they could afford to watch Orion and Wheelie canter away into the spruce forest and up into the foothills of the nearby Manganese Mountains, on their way to Praxus.

“I don’t usually do good-byes, kid,” Ratchet bristled. “Just promises of seeing each other again.”

“No offense, Ratchet,” Drift attempted to appease the medic calmly, opening up his hands in a peace gesture. “So...uh...what now?”

“Time to head inside, kid.” The medic wheeled his horse around and grimaced up at the gate, making sure that Drift couldn’t see his face. If they had been looking at each other, they would’ve seen the grimace reflected on each other. ‘ _It’s good to be home_.’

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Nova Cronum defied the expectations of a Southern city-state. It wasn’t because of how the buildings were constructed; white limestone or marble from the nearby quarry was the most popular building material, with broad dark timber roofing from the surrounding forest. It wasn’t because of the people, not really; there was a hodgepodge of skin tones, hair colors, weights and heights, and clothing.

Nova Cronum was _ridiculously_ clean. The walls of each of the houses shone with a blinding white brilliance in the early morning sun; each window was crystal clear, the doors and roofing looked brand new and with little to no sign of moss or lumber rot, even in the cooler, more humid environment. Even the cobbled streets did not appear to have accumulated much dirt from feet and hooves alike, though the busy hustling of merchants, shop-goers, and their carts should’ve easily changed the off-white stones to muddy brown. Everything just had a air of ‘new’ to it. Where was the stale air of societal decay and refuse?

“Those fancy goggles of yours would’ve been helpful to you, to keep the sun out of your eyes,” said Ratchet, keeping a tight grasp on Gasket’s reins and leading them further into the city.

“Why does it look like everyone’s afraid of the dirt?” Drift asked, pulling the lip of his hood further over his eyes to divert the glare from the sun on the white rock and windows. “This city seems to want to be Primus’ Paradise on Cybertron.”

“After the Bleeding Plague,” Ratchet called back, checking his mare when she spooked as some children chased each other directly in front of her hooves, “Alpha Trion thought that keeping the place clean would help prevent the plague in the future. So-” he descended into grumbling when his mare attempted to rear and almost bumped back into Gasket, “he pays the peasants and serfs to come in and clean the streets at night, when they’re not busy in the fields.”

A symphony of raucous calling and loud music quickly drove any response from Drift’s head when the turned the corner and found themselves parallel with a large, long mansion of gleaming white marble. Crimson velvet banners draped from the half-dozen balconies on the second and third floor, and there were crowds congregating in the mansion’s courtyard and into the open doors, where some troupe was going at their instruments with great enthusiasm. Beauties of every gender and race beckoned to the crowd with flips of their sheer drapings and the flirtatious fluttering of their decorated eyes from the balconies. “Healer Ratchet!” some of them called, waving in friendly greeting. “It’s good to see you back and healthy!” “Please, come and see us again soon!”

“You shouldn’t keep asking me to come back so often!” Ratchet yelled back with a broad grin, despite his volume. “I get worried when you want me to keep visiting.”

“How can they help it?” One of the pleasure-house’s congregation guffawed with a drunken swagger, looking at both Ratchet and Drift with inebriated humor. “Your bedroom manner is only matched by your bedside manner, Ratch!” Drift watched the patron go down under the well-placed throw of a wrench to the head while the crowd dissolved into roars of chuckling and laughter. Well, the whores seemed to know Ratchet intimately well, so why not the patrons? He’d probably treated most of them for some sort of disease.

“You certainly seem to be popular in these parts,” said Drift with a slight smirk to his face, leaving his comment open for explanation.

“The entire city knows me, kid,” Ratchet snapped, back to his grumpy facade. “Why should it be any different here? People of all walks of life need healing; I thought you’d know that by now.”

“No wrenches for me, please.”

“I’ll think about it.”

The lustful caterwauling around the solitary brothel gave way to the sizzle of oil and the spicy steam of hot foods. Hawkers and vendors beseeched passerby, each trying to outdo the other.

“Trout! I have fresh trout, just caught this mornin’!”

“Get your salted salmon from the Eastern sea! Best tasting dried fish you’ll ever eat, guaranteed!”

“That’s not sayin’ much ‘cause they’re all awful! I’ve got preserved Camien cherries, perfect for pies and cakes and everything in between.”

“Camien cherries are pink, and yours are blood-red! I can tell that those are from Uraya and are bitter like lemons.”

“Spiced mutton for m’lords?” A young lady, garbed in the blood-stained apron of a butcher, approached the horsemen and offered a tray of skewered meat cubes to them. “Rosemary and wild garlic, from the field where this one was born and raised, sirs.”

Drift’s grumbling stomach wouldn’t let him turn down this meal, and the morsels did look quite nice and smelled even nicer. Reaching into his old crimson cloak, Drift fished around in his money purse and drew out two of the gold coins that Orion had given him as a down payment for his services and held his hand down to offer them to the butcher. “This’ll do, I hope?”

The butcher’s eyes widened to the size of banquet platters at the sight of the gleaming yellow metal. “Sir, that’s honestly too much!” she wheezed in protest. “This meat’s only worth a few coppers at most!”

“I’m running low on coppers,” Drift lied, and it was a very blatant, obvious lie; people rarely were without copper coins, except for the poorest of the poor. “Just take ‘em and use them for something useful.”

“I...you’re most kind, sir!” the butcher gushed, handing him the four long, thin rods of wood and their dripping contents. She pocketed the gold coins and shook the tray onto the ground. “May the God-Primes bless ye!” she waved them off, skipping back to her stall.

“Blessing to you as well!” Ratchet called back because Drift’s mouth was currently full of flavorful meat that just fell apart when he bit the cubes. Nudging their horses forward, the two riders stuffed themselves with the midday meal and ignored any passerby, who either ignored them in turn or barely spared them a glance.

Drift felt considerable warmth in his belly as he finished the last of the mutton, and he’d only finished off one of the three skewers that he’d kept for himself. It would be a shame to let the food go to waste, especially when he’d offered so much for it. He vocally offered one to Ratchet, who could only shake his head because he was still eating. “How about you?” he whispered to Gasket, wafting a full skewer in front of his face, wafting the scents of cooked meat and herbs into the horse’s nose. “Want a bite, Gasket?” Gasket reared his head back at the smell of the cooked lamb and glowered back at his rider. Suitably cowed and feeling a tinge of guilt, Drift hurriedly whispered an apology and looked for a way to divest himself of the extra meat. A gaggle of small, scruffy children laughed and chased each other close to the two horsemen. With a small smile, Drift let the two meat skewers hang loosely in one hand and down his side, easily within a small hand’s reach. With swift, practiced subtlety, the skewers vanished from his group as the little ones scampered into an alley with their succulent prize.

“We’re going to need to get you some different clothes to get into the Citadel,” Ratchet called over the slightly thinning crowd as they approached a bank of tall, smooth white walls at the center of Nova Cronum’s city. “I know a tailor who lives down this boulevard; he and his partner supply most of the clothing for the Guardians that train in the Crown, so he’ll know what you need.”

“Umm, Ratchet?” Drift ventured, unconsciously curling in on himself, “I’m not entirely sure that-”

“I’m just warning you now,” Ratchet cut across him as if he hadn’t heard Drift talk (which was very likely; even with the thinning crowd, it was still very loud). “This man can be a bit...overbearing and assertive, so just let him handle you as he needs to.”

“Ratchet, is he going to be like-”

“If we can, I’ll see if I can get his partner to do the measuring. Try to be specific of what colors will reflect Rodion’s noble house, or the two of them might go overboard.”

“Ratchet-” “RATCHET!” A loud, demanding caterwaul from the side of the boulevard spooked Ratchet’s white horse so badly that she reared, and Ratchet barely had time to brace himself before he slid from the saddle and onto the clean cobblestones, forcing him to release Gasket’s reins. Drift slid from Gasket and nimbly dodged around the mare’s flailing hooves before finally being able to knot her flying leather reins in his fingers and yanking down with all his might, grabbing the horse’s halter. Mindful of Ratchet’s vulnerable position behind his mare, Drift firmly pulled her forward and out of the way of the crowd of people who’d gathered to witness the situation, keeping a tight hold on the reins and putting a heavy hand at the base of her head. The white mare huffed and her eyes slowed in their panicked rolling, allowing her to be tied off on the stake outside a shop, and he was quick to do the same with Gasket before any of these strangers could think of walking off with his friend.

The culprit of the yell was hauling Ratchet to his feet, alternating between brushing off his cloak and armor and shooing away curious, grabby onlookers. “Oh, by Alchemist! Look at the state of you- _begone, plebian_! Honestly, Ratchet, you _must_ let me know if you’re going to be passing by- _I felt that, you cretin, and I do have a dagger in my sleeve if you try that again_!” Drift looked over at Ratchet from the calming mare and almost had to shield his eyes, even with his goggles, at the sight. Ratchet was leaning on a man dressed entirely in brilliant red; a loose, sheer red robe draped over a long red tunic, thin red trousers, and black boots with a dyed red rim- what was with all the red?! The only part of him that didn’t make Drift wish he’d never see another piece of red clothing again was his moon-white face, but even that was offset by long, brilliant red hair, with a single braid decorated with a strand of red glass beads along a black strand of leather. Drift could easily recognize them; the beaded strand of hair was a tradition of bonding or union among some Decepticon fiefdoms. If this person wasn’t a Decepticon himself, he was very likely bonded to one.

“Knock Out, I’m fine!” Ratchet spluttered, shaking the citizen off and brushing himself down. “I just fell off a horse. I’ll be sore later-”

“I’ll say that you will!” Knock Out snapped, hands on his hips. “I’ll have to realign your hips to keep you from limping, and don’t you _dare_ tell me that you can handle it yourself, you stubborn old goat.” Knock Out was a good few inches shorter than Ratchet, but it was a mixture of impressive and hilarious with how he was puffing up like an angry hen and getting into the healer’s face. “The compensation by the rest of your body will get you hurt on a battlefield when you’re being called out again, and I do NOT anticipate having to explain to the Autobot High Command precisely _why_ their Chief Healer was too stubborn to look out for himself.”

“I get it, Knock Out, I GET IT!” Ratchet shouted down at the shorter, daring man. “If I let you poke around at my back for a bit, would you be so kind as to let Breakdown and whatever assistants you have around make _him_ look mildly respectable?” He flung his hand in a gesture at a flabbergasted, stunned Drift to get the tailor’s attention off of him. “I’m supposed to be taking him to-”

“You!” Drift flinched backwards when the shorter Knock Out reached out and tugged him forward with some considerable strength by the collar, and he shut his eyes. This was it; his one chance to fit in and maybe not completely blow a chance to settle in the South, and it was going to be by another former Decepticon that held a grudge against halfers-

“You. Are. _Gorgeous!_ ”

- _huh?_

Knock Out’s eyes were alight with enthusiasm as he ran his hands along Drift’s arms, his shoulders, across his collar. “My my, Ratchet, what a _lovely_ specimen that you brought with you today.” The sharp tips of his fingers tipped Drift’s head up by the chin and turned it from side to side. “A chiseled jaw, but not too much so. Nice cheekbones, if a little sunken in. Definitely a starved appearance, but you’ve been eating better, haven’t you? A good head of hair, no insects...Don’t drool,” the tailor chided the taller sellsword, using the tip of his thumb to wipe an unconscious bubble of saliva from the corner of Drift’s lip. “I know that I may be quite a sight, and I should hope so, but it’s simply bad manners-”

“Knock Out, hands off!” Ratchet snapped, watching the embarrassed blush blazing across Drift’s face like a firestorm. “Ask before you touch, remember?” With a beleaguered, over-exaggerated sigh, Knock Out drew his hand back into his long red sleeve, dipping his head in apology to Drift. The sellsword took a slight step back from the scarlet tailor to regather himself, brushing himself down and wiping his mouth. He didn’t droo- _oh_...a slight trail of moisture came away on his gauntlet.

“Now, let’s get a better look at yo- no, no nonono.” Knock Out tutted in mild distress as he got a better glimpse of Drift from a little distance back. “What _are_ you wearing? If you’re supposed to be a Guardian, then you’re providing a very poor impression to your peers and colleagues. I mean, by Primus, look at you! All your wonderful physical attributes being offset by...this,” he waved a desperate hand at Drift’s armor and tunic.

“It was a gift from my... father-” Drift protested hotly, but Knock Out cut across him with a vicious light in his eyes.

“Trust me, he was _not_ doing you any favors. Come along, come along!” The tailor grabbed Drift’s wrist and started dragging him towards the curtain that separated his shop from the outside world. Ratchet’s hands clamped down on Drift’s shoulders to help steer him into the shop. Stunned by this act of betrayal, Drift was limply shoved into the expansive workplace.

Color assaulted his vision immediately. Drapes of fabric hung from the stone walls, displaying many different patterns and materials. Silks, cottons, and linens were folded and bolted into shelves and boxes, and there were telltale lumps from behind the draperies. For all the tailor shop’s color and liveliness, there wasn’t a soul to be seen, though. “You, stand there,” Knock Out barked, marching over to an extremely messy desk after parking Drift in the center of an ornately woven rug. “You! Park yourself there,” the tailor gestured imperiously at Ratchet, rummaging around in a cup of charcoal with one hand and groping for a piece of parchment in the other. “And take off that armor before you overheat, both of you.”

Ratchet began shrugging off his dented armor, but Drift was a lot more reluctant to do so. It was getting rather hot, but he still didn’t know Knock Out at all, flattering as he may be. He could just as easily throw Drift out of his shop or cut his throat for a chance at his purse. You never could tell with anybody anymore. A rustle of parchment, and Knock Out drew out a fresh sheet and began scribbling away furiously, occasionally looking up at Drift with a scrutinizing glare and drawing some more, muttering in his dulcet tones.

“Finally, a man with some decent hips to match the shoulder width. I can at least work with this.” Drift seized up immediately, his dented armor giving an audible _squawk_. “Oh don’t be shy, dear,” Knock Out waved away the display of concern. “I was able to tell your birth sex from the minute that Ratchet pointed you out, and your transition turned out beautifully,” the tailor mumbled off-handedly. There was another _squawk_ of armor. “When you work with anatomy for as long as I have, shame becomes rapidly replaced with an appreciation for the details. Now…” Knockout turned back to face the sellsword, a fire in his eyes. “ _Strip._ ”

“Um-”

“I’m sending for someone to take your armor for repairs. Can’t very well do that if you’re still wearing the stuff.”

Oh, that actually made sense. Now that Drift started actually looking his armor with a more intense scrutiny, it really started to dawn on him on how sorry of a state the plating was in. There were rust spots where the paint had rubbed off, and some of the black lacquer had bubbled and flaked. There were also no small amounts of scrapes and dents.

“Breakdown!” Knock Out shouted behind him, holding his parchment up to a colored lantern. “Oh, where are you when I need you… BREAKDOWN!”

“Yes?” Both Ratchet and Drift startled as a mass of shaggy blonde hair and hazel eyes appeared from behind a tapestry. The enormous torso and thick, stocky legs that accompanied said head of hair seemed disproportionate, but not overtly so. Though garbed in a short-sleeved blue shirt, grey trousers and boots, he too wore a red-beaded leather piece in his hair. If it was obvious that Knock Out was not best suited for the battlefield, then it was obvious that this Breakdown had long been destined for it, and as a brawler no less. He seemed very much out of place in the tailor’s shop, like a bull in a glass-smith’s place.

“Ah, you startled me,” Knock Out gasped, putting a manicured hand (also painted red) to his upper chest dramatically, but there was a small smile on his face. “Would you please draw up a bath for our customer here? He smells like he hasn’t used soap in months.”

“I just used some the other-” Drift began protesting, but was interrupted by the sheer amount of speed that Breakdown utilized to cross the room and draw Knock Out into an embrace, bringing his head down next to the tailor’s and planting a small, innocent kiss on his cheek. Knock Out’s face turned nearly as scarlet as the rest of his clothing, from his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

“Already done, partner,” the ex-warrior purred, nuzzling the side of Knock Out’s face with evident delight. Drift might’ve figured as being a more clingy and affectionate paramour, since he certainly dressed the part. Then, he mentally flicked himself across the forehead for making assumptions based on first impressions. Gasket (not the horse, but his human namesake) had always warned him that making such assumptions could be potentially deadly; Drift was loath to admit that he was still trying to eliminate that particularly troublesome vice.

Knock Out half-heartedly squirmed from Breakdown’s significant mass and grip and patted his paramour on the head, mussing up his hair. “For not being a Mentalist, you sure know how to predict what I need or want with uncanny speed and detail. Is the bath still warm and are the modesty screens up?”

“They almost never come down.”

“Mmm,” Knock Out hummed proudly, patting the larger man on the cheek. “You’re so wonderful. Could you please lead our customer into the back? Then we can work together on appropriate colors for this one’s trappings while I try to piece the _overly stubborn medic_ back together.” Out of the corner of Drift’s eye, Ratchet made a very rude hand gesture but did not verbally respond. “And get rid of the rags that he’s wearing, please. By the time we’re done, he’ll walk out of here almost unrecognizable.”

“Hold on!” Drift finally found his tongue again, talking directly to Knock Out. “Listen, I know that this tunic isn’t in the best of shape, but I’ve got some sentimental attachment to it. I want to keep it. Maybe you could...I dunno, patch it up or something?” he tentatively suggested; he wasn’t a tailor, he couldn’t gauge what they could or couldn’t do. “Just don’t throw it away, please.”

“Hmm.” It was Breakdown who stepped forward, stroking his square chin and giving a thoughtful hum. As he got closer, Drift noticed numerous small, pale scars running across his arms and even a few on his face. They had healed well, but he guessed that it was only under the careful ministration of Breakdown’s bonded. “May I?” he gestured at a sleeve politely, and Drift allowed him to touch the garment, rubbing the material between thick, able fingers. “It’s a good design, but the materials are wearing thin,” he observed in a soft voice but loud enough for Knock Out to hear. “It’s gone through the hells and back, though. We can probably recreate it, I think.”

“Why not just leave it to whatever Consort strikes his fancy?” Knock Out said while flustered, hands on his hips. “It’s their work to repair battle tunics after they’ve chosen a Guardian.”

Breakdown stepped away and motioned to the crest of Rodion stitched into the tunic. “Look, Knock Out. What decent Southern Consort would go for a Northern Guardian?”

Drift glowered at the comment, his brow furrowing in displeasure. He was not some sort of foreign monster; he was NOT here to attract a Consort and enter into a Bond with them, and he didn’t need some snooty, arrogant, sheltered Consort confronting him and listing all of his failings, starting off with where he was born and continuing on with the fact that he didn’t actually have a kingdom anymore, given that Rodion was an abandoned, ‘cursed’ fief.

“Well, by Solus’ silken small-clothes,” Knock Out breathed, getting a decent glimpse at the embroidered leaping black hound on the yellow shield. “Well, of _course_ we can try our best, but you’re going to need a complete makeover if you’re going to impress at the Citadel. Come along, into the back with you.” The tailor got behind Drift again and gave his shoulders a shove, forcing him forward. “Take everything off behind the screens, and someone will take your armor and swords down to the blacksmith,” he instructed, turning back towards Ratchet. “They’ll deliver it back to you at the Citadel.”

“Better get going,” Ratchet prompted the sellsword with a gesture. “Your bath is getting cold, and I can still smell you from here,” the medic smirked, not unkindly. Drift still aimed a glower at him and marched in the direction that Breakdown pointed him to, disappearing behind a long barrier of painted modesty screens. He shucked off his battered armor with an audible screech of rusted joints, shrugged the tunic from over his head, and slid from his trousers and boots. Folding each piece of clothing into a neat square or rectangle, he set them just outside the modesty screen and slid into the ample wooden tub with a soft sigh. The water was steaming and pleasantly warm, but not scalding hot. Washing in the river was fine, but nothing really beat a warm, freshly drawn bath. “Ahh…” Drift released a long, low sigh and almost completely submerged himself under the water, feeling the dirt and grit come away. His head just barely above the surface of the steaming bath, he listened carefully to the somewhat-hushed tones of conversation between Ratchet, Breakdown, and Knock Out.

“No going crazy.”

“There’s so much potential, though…”

“Knock Out, we should start with the basics-”

“Purple, black, and gold!”

“That would clash horribly. I can’t think of anybody that those colors would work on when they’re mashed together.”

“What would you know? You’re not a tailor-”

‘ _Maybe they should ask_ me _, since I’m going to be the one paying for this,_ ’ Drift thought mutinously, but didn’t bother speaking up; the bath was just so comfortable, and he was determined to savor the warmth seeping into his body. On a small table near the bath sat a guttering red candle and a tall, thin glass bottle of cleansing oil. ‘ _Might as well_ ,” he shrugged, picking up the oil bottle by its thin neck and easing out the well-greased cork. The pleasant aroma of mint curled from the lid and wafted into his nose. It was a calming, soothing scent with just a hint of a stinging bite to it; he allowed himself a short moment to close his eyes and savor the smell before pouring a decent amount into his hand and running his oiled fingers through his hair. Tiny knots gave way under his fingers, and the once-stringy black mass smoothed into a shining curtain around his face, the one thing that may have made him appear womanly at first glance.

“And be sure to scrub well!” Knock Out’s yell almost shook the paneling of the modesty screens; Drift sat up so suddenly from the shock that water sloshed over the sides of the tub, and he clutched the sides while the bottle of oil bobbed on the disturbed surface and tipped its entirety into the water. Mint...mint everywhere. “I want you smelling like an herbologist’s collection when you come out.” Oh, _that_ wasn’t going to be an issue...he was going to reek of mint for the next week. Drift pulled the bottle out of the water, replaced it with the cork on the side table, and furiously began scrubbing at his skin with the tips of his fingers. With the mat of glossy black hair framing his face and strands sticking to his eyelids, he groped for a drying cloth folded over the top of one of the modesty screens and stepped from the tub.

Three pairs of eyes widened upon seeing Drift when he finally stepped out from behind the modesty screen, garbed in a simple white robe that was fastened with a strap around his waist. Knock Out stepped a little closer to Breakdown, who took his paramour’s hand and practically engulfed it in his own. Ratchet’s mouth was slightly agape, too. It was rather disconcerting, honestly. “What?” the young man barked, pushing his dripping hair behind his ears and unconsciously clenching it into a ponytail.

Ratchet blinked before giving a rough, barking cough and turned his head away. “You clean up good, kid,” he simply mumbled, almost as a whisper. Drift physically shrank away at the comment, but some small thing inside of him preened like a cock-sure rooster at receiving such a compliment from the surly Healer.

“Alright, alright, you do look like you could pass for a Consort with only a bath,” Knock Out attempted to say in a flippant tone (Drift froze like a statue at the words, and it took all his self-discipline to relax), waving his hand, “but you’re a Guardian now, so let’s have you looking like one.” He pointed to a low, circular podium for Drift to stand on. The moment he moved onto the wooden dressing stage, the entire store seemed to explode into a fabric storm. Knock Out and Breakdown babbled and twittered at each other like excited sparrows. A spool of measuring ribbon wrapped around Drift’s neck, and he gagged at the tight cinch of the ribbon closing tight for an instant and then twisting away. A flutter of shimmering indigo wrapped around his body, and the flurry ceased for a precious few seconds while the tailor and his partner deliberated.

“Good color on him,” Breakdown muttered, holding up a loose end of the bolt to Drift’s outstretched arm. “Pair it with some gold…”

“I’ll set it aside for a formal outfit. Next!”

The chaos started up again, this time with orange, red, and black. “This _could_ look...decent?” Knock Out grimaced, holding three swatches of the brightly dyed fabric in one hand and fingering his chin. Breakdown looked like he was going to be sick, and Drift couldn’t blame him; he’d never been a fan of orange when he was wearing it.

“If _you’re_ not even sure, Knock Out,” Ratchet interrupted from his seat, “then it’s probably violating whatever sense of fashion you do possess and you’re just being too spineless to say anything. I’ll say it for you, then: that looks hideous. Try again.”

Knock Out aimed a rude gesture at Ratchet, but wisely tossed the orange cotton away. Near the back of the store, a bell tinkled softly, and Knock Out burst into a panicked whirl, rushing around the store. “Oh no! I forgot that she was coming in for a fitting- I’ll be right back!” The scarlet tailor rushed towards the back of the store to intercept his forgotten customer, scraps of fabric being kicked up in his wake.

“Sorry about the...rush with everything,” Breakdown muttered to a bewildered Drift, pushing away bolts of fabric of every color imaginable. “It’s hard to keep up with Knock Out sometimes, when he gets this enthusiastic.”

“‘Enthusiastic’ is putting it _mildly_ ,” Drift deadpanned to the beleaguered strongman, shaking off a stray scrap of orange maudlin that had floated onto his shoulder. Breakdown didn’t respond, staring thoughtfully down at some solid cotton bolts stacked carefully to the side. “What? You see something that you think might work?”

“Eh?” Breakdown grunted, pulled him his thoughts. “You want to see what I can come up with?”

“I can at least keep up with you,” said Drift calmly and truthfully. Knock Out had proved that he didn’t take too much time to slow down and really ponder, but Breakdown apparently thought things through before testing them out. The assistant’s square face broke into a grin, and he pulled out two bolts and showed off their feels and colors. His hand hesitated over a bolt of brilliant white before a solid, brilliant crimson cotton was overlaid with another length of charcoal black. It was a striking, attractive contrast, in Drift’s opinion.

“Not a lot of people ask me for my opinion, honestly, so I’m a bit surprised,” he mumbled, more to himself than to Drift, before allowing his vocal volume to rise slightly. “Anyways, since Rodion’s got that gold and black banner, I think that these two would look good,” Breakdown explained, displaying the fabrics separately for a better comparison. “Black trousers and tunic, and a red vest with a gold belt, maybe? We could do red pants and shirt and a black vest, too, if you’d prefer, but black’s better at disguising the dirt.”

“Well, I-”

“I’m so _sorry_ , Cyclonus!” Knock Out’s loud declarations interrupted Drift before he could even voice his opinion. The young man grimaced with slight impatience at the constant interruption, but the name...the name that Knock Out was using, Ratchet had mentioned it before on their travels to Nova Cronum, hadn’t he? “I completely forgot that you were coming, and we have somebody in for a fitting and- wait!”

“I can wait, Knock Out,” a low, husky voice muffled his apologies and stammerings. Behind a curtain that screened some sort of back entrance, a tall woman glided into the fitting room with no hesitation, exuding confidence and strength in her rigid spine and handsome, narrow face with high cheekbones. Glossy black hair was tied back into a severe bun and decorated with curved silver pins, exposing a long face with high cheekbones and dark, hooded eyes. Her piercing gaze quickly found the far-less clothed Drift, and she kept constant eye contact with him, even while pulling off the pure white cloak of a Consort from around her shoulders. “Another Northerner, I see?” she asked the room at large, tipping her head up and blinking twice with ridiculously long eyelashes. “I never took you as someone who would escort one of our ilk to a Southern Citadel, Healer Ratchet.”

“Sort of a sudden development, Consort Cyclonus,” Ratchet replied. He’d stood up from his seat politely and had his arms folded behind him. “We found him while I was on sabbatical, and the charges that I was accompanying took a liking to him and sent him here before they moved on to Iacon. I’m sorry for his behavior. I’m sure that he’s so taken by your appearance that he seems to have forgotten that _he is a Guardian and you are a Consort_.”

Ratchet’s last few words finally prompted Drift to jerkily bend at the waist with one hand clenched behind his back in a fist; if he remembered correctly (and he wasn’t so old as to have forgotten years of experience _quite_ yet), this was the correct bow to exchange between a Consort-in-training and an unbound Guardian. He thought it was the same with the Autobots as it was with the Decepticons...he fervently hoped so. He was being paid handsomely to give a good impression.

From above him, Cyclonus spoke again in that deep, raspy voice of hers. “It’s rare that I see a potential Guardian come in with prior knowledge to customs and etiquette. I hope that your age and experiences have given you a wisdom that many of your peers...will be lacking in.” She did not sound overly impressed, but her tone of voice was not especially malevolent either, just dour. She marched past him with a flutter of dark, plush purple robes trimmed with silver thread, and settled on the edge of a seat near Ratchet, folding her hands into the long sleeves of her garb and onto her lap. “You may continue, Knock Out. I will wait here.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Knock Out groped blindly behind him for some sort of fabric, and came away with the stretch of scarlet that Breakdown had been originally holding up to Drift, to compare with the black. “Hmm...so many of the Guardians already wear red in mass quantities. I want to have you wear something _different_ , if only a little.”

“Breakdown had the idea of a black tunic and trousers with a red vest,” Drift offered, and Breakdown’s face erupted into a crimson blush. “Pair that red with the charcoal...I like the contrast.”

“Did he, now?” Knock Out aimed a sidelong glance at his blushing mate, who looked as if he wanted to hide behind his hands or vanish through the floorboards. Amber eyes peaked out from in between thick fingers. “It’s rare for a customer to ask my assistant for his opinion.”

“I...uh…” Breakdown murmured, and he almost visibly shrank under the scrutinizing gaze.

“I think you’re right.” Knock Out kindly pet his assistant’s gigantic hands and pulled them from his stunned, flushed face. “It’s a nice contrast, and would match his skin tone strikingly. Not enough of the Guardians wear enough black.”

“So...I had a good idea?” “You had a wonderful idea, dear- _hurk_!” Knock Out’s breath escaped him in one huge guff as Breakdown pulled him up into a, affectionate, spine-popping hug. “ _Yes- good idea- Breakdown- can’t- breathe!_ ”

The charcoal black was set aside for a set of clothing, along with a small sample of white that Knock Out wished to experiment with, and the collection of people all deliberated over the scarlet that had been initially favored by the two tailors and Drift. Cyclonus silently pointed to a bolt of silk that more closely resembled the color of a red ruby, and Ratchet compromised between the two camps with a bolt of cherry red and crimson apiece. As the individual pieces would not be ready for a few days, Drift left the shop with three standard tunics, two pairs of trousers (wearing one of each), a modesty robe, and fresh smallclothes all in a small wooden trunk with metal latches, as well as a much lighter purse. He also left with the assurance from Breakdown that they would attempt to recreate the battle tunic and barding as faithful to the original commission by Lord Gasket as possible. He was going to hold the tailors to their word.

“You know some interesting people,” the mercenary-cum-Guardian said conversationally to Ratchet as they waved down a vacant cart-and-horse to take the trunk up to the Citadel fortress. “Is everyone in Nova Cronum this interesting?”

“They’re all colorful in their own right,” Ratchet admitted, rolling his neck and shifting his recently adjusted hips for any kinks, “and we don’t have _near_ the same amount of drama that you’d get in Iacon...but you’ll still have to tread carefully when interacting with the nobility. Speaking of,” the healer’s neutral expression regressed into a scowl, “I wouldn’t get into the habit of talking to every Consort the same way that you did with Cyclonus. By all accounts, she’s especially forgiving for that particular slight.”

“I’m trying to watch that ‘chip in my shoulder’, as you call it,” Drift snarked back, having slipped the cart-drawer three gold credits for his services. “It’s going to take some time, though. I’m not used to having to interact with Consorts on a regular basis. Northern Consorts aren’t really all that stuffy or proper, by the South’s standards.”

“Maybe not,” Ratchet agreed, mounting his steed and waiting for Drift to do the same. “But the quicker you do adjust, the smoother you’ll fit in, and the better you’ll do so that you can report back to Orion and get paid. I’ll be watching you.”

“Isn’t everybody going to be watching me?” Drift replied snarkily, running his fingernails along the blaze on Gasket’s face as the horse sniffed viciously at him, obviously prompted by the near-overpowering mint. “Might as well post signage that says ‘Roll up, Roll up, everyone come to see the freak.’”

“It ain’t that funny, kid,” Ratchet replied with all seriousness, helping Drift onto his saddle by grasping the back of his tunic. “Make all the jokes you want, but there’s a healthy number of people in there who’re going to look at you and immediately wish that you were dead.”

Drift let those words ring in his ears in a continuous cycle as they began their trek up towards the marble expanse that marked the walls of the Citadel. He suddenly came to the realization that he probably shouldn’t have taken the job...or should’ve asked Orion Pax for more money in return.


	11. Tour of Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally outfitted for the job, Drift and Ratchet have to part their ways inside the Citadel, only for Drift to gain two hangers on that explain some of the ins-and-outs of Drift's new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, guys. Life/school happens and all that. Chapter written by Gumby1011, edited by anna1795.

Ratchet shifted in his saddle, the ache in his hips flaring slightly as his mare trotted along calmly. If there was one thing the Healer hated, it was when a _novice_ assumed they knew anything at all about the human body without proper training, and _especially_ when his own joints were involved! Alas, there was one golden rule with Knockout when one wanted to remain a customer at his tailory: never, ever say no. Even when you really should. 

Either way, at least the formalities were out of the way, and he and Drift could finally get down to business. The two riders rounded the corner onto a long, elaborate boulevard that stretched up the gentle slope to the gates of the Citadel. Small, immaculate manors lined the street as brightly-dressed nobility and well-off merchants strutted along every so often. Respectful nods and tipped hats met the Healer as the duo rode- almost as many as the number of raised eyebrows shot in Drift’s direction. Ratchet locked a glare on two gawkers in particular- a pair of brightly-clothed leather merchant muttering to each other over the waist-high hollybush separating their properties. “What’s the matter? Not like it’s the first time I’ve brought a new Guardian through here,” the healer snipped. 

The taller one between the two- dressed in sky blue with red accents- piped up with a new, leering gleam in his eye. “Oooh, a fresh face! Do be a dear and send him by my emporium sometime, Healer, we may have something that could be of use to him!” 

Ratchet just rolled his eyes before gazing forward. While the merchant wasn’t the most scrupulous person around, at the very least he’d diverted attention from Drift- the rest of the street were already rolling their collective eyes at their neighbor’s antics. “It’ll be a cold day in Camia before I ever send one of the students your way, Dealer,” Ratchet spat with venom. “You hear that kid? Don’t trust that one.”

Drift just wordlessly brought Gasket so that he was alongside Ratchet’s mare. “You seem to be implying I’d trust  _ any  _ of these people, Ratchet,” the sellsword whispered. “None of these types seem the least bit trustworthy.” 

Ratchet rolled his eyes before hissing back “Look, kid, you don’t have to like anybody here, nor trust all of them, but they’ll be a lot less likely to eat you alive if you at least  _ try  _ and check that chip on your shoulder at the gates. A lot of these folks can be great allies to you one day, but they also can be easy to offend, and they have a habit of holding a grudge.”

“Let them hold whatever they feel like holding. I’m not here to make friends.” Drift muttered before pulling back behind Ratchet. 

“ _Suuure_ you aren’t.” Ratchet shook his head as they carried on towards the end of the street. ‘ _Because nobody’s ever seen the “I don’t need friends” act before,_ ’ he thought to himself as a self-admitted hypocritical addendum. Meanwhile, at least a score of other guardians who all acted like this at some point or another all jumped to the front of Ratchet’s mind. Hell, so did one particular consort, even. Either way, as the healer’s eyes came to rest on the familiar alabaster-white wall at the end of the street, the smallest of smiles crept up on his face. Five months. He’d been away from home for five months. Five months spent with one of his best friends, no doubt, but five months nonetheless. “Good to be home,” he mused to himself. “You see that up there, Drift? That there’s the Citadel. It’s where you’re going to be living.” 

The healer glanced back at the mercenary and smirked to himself as the young man gazed up, his stony facade momentarily shaken by a wave of slack-jawed awe. To be perfectly honest there was quite a bit to get slack-jawed at. Before the pair, in the very heart of the city, stood a titanic _ ,  _ gleaming white wall of stone. From afar, the wall was quite large; up close, Drift and Ratchet were easily dwarfed by the construct. Each block that made up the wall was a man and a half tall and as wide as five men standing shoulder-to-shoulder. They shone as if the hallowed halls of Megatronus’ arena had descended to their mortal coil and settled in the middle of the city. On top of that, the peaks of three white towers of varying heights stood watch behind the wall, topped with flaming braziers even during the day. 

“You okay there, kid?” Ratchet huffed over his shoulder. “I should probably warn you, the other trainees will likely think ill of you if you fall off your horse just  _ looking  _ at the place.” 

Drift immediately ripped his view from the towers and fixed a glare at the healer. “Oh, I’m  _ sorry,  _ I was just taken aback by the bald-faced excess of the place. A structure that big made completely out of - what is that,  _ marble?”  _

“Yes, yes, it is indeed marble,” Ratchet shrugged. “Although in all fairness, it came from the quarry just outside of the city, otherwise I’m sure they’d have used something more common.” A moment of awkward silence hung between the two riders as Ratchet left the unanswered question open to guesses from the latest trainee. They were guesses that never came. “... As for the  _ size,  _ the Citadel is home to almost every would-be Consort and Guardian in the Autobot regions, aside from Iacon’s own Citadel. We  _ need _ every single room.” 

Drift couldn’t help but glare up at the towers, them standing a testament to the excess of Autobot nobility in the sellsword’s mind. “Every single room? In  _ every single tower? _ Is that a fact?”

“Yeah, I know, it seems like a lot, but every tower has its purpose,” Ratchet grumbled as he raised a hand, signalling to the guards at the embossed bronze doors. When the impassive metal slab finally started grinding open, Ratchet altered the gesture to point out the shortest of the spires. “Temple to Primus,” he pointed next to the middling tower. “The Lords’ Quarters,” he then indicated the last, tallest spire. “And finally, the Consorts’ tower, or the Hall of Ivy,” he spat out the last name, more ceremonial and symbolic than actually useful. Each of the respective towers fed into a smaller wall of equally brilliant marble, leaving some sort of small enclosure in the center.

Drift couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Alright, I’ll accept that the South isn’t exclusively fanatical loons, I can understand the Temple’s stature, but are you honestly telling me that the Consorts enjoy a loftier tower than the  _ ruling trine?”  _

Ratchet simply shrugged as the two finally rode through the marble wall. “And the other nobility that teach here. Like I said, there are a _lot_ of Consorts here. Greetings, Nightbeat!” 

As the duo rode past, the dark-skinned guard in blue and yellow armor saluted lazily. “Good to see you back, Ratchet,” he drawled, regressing into a gaping yawn.

Drift looked back at Nightbeat- he didn’t strike him as the type to be trusted with guarding  _ anything,  _ really. On top of that, the way he was just…  _ staring  _ right back at the sellsword with his brow furrowed did nothing to boost Drift’s confidence. When he finally managed to peel his gaze from the guard, he looked dead at the healer. “Ratchet, I think he  _ knows.”  _

His escort just snorted before glancing over at the lad. “Nightbeat doesn’t _know_ anything; he just suspects. Suspecting is his favorite pastime, really.” Ratchet then pulled back on his mare’s reins, bringing the two to a halt just before the path crossed a cobblestone road. “Take a look around, kid. This part of the Citadel is referred to as the Crown, you’re going to be spending an awful lot of time here.” 

And what an extensive expanse it was! The Crown- so far as Drift could tell- appeared to consist of a vast manicured courtyard that surrounded the three towers, reaching all the way to the shorter walls. Small, ornamental trees were dotted along the inside of the wall, with bare patches of dirt around the roots that gave way to off-white cobblestones. A good three hundred feet separated the outer wall from the next expanse of marble wall around the towers, and Drift could see a few sand pits and benches nearby; most likely a sparring area for young fighters that needed to practice their forms. 

“You can get off your horse here.” Ratchet demonstrated the movement and held his mare’s reins while waving over a pair of young stablehands. “Don’t worry about your stuff. The horse-master will have it taken to the barracks where you’ll be staying, and I know personally that he’ll make sure nothing’s stolen.”

“Barracks?” Most of Ratchet’s other words were completely forgotten because  _ that _ had been a detail that Drift had neglected to focus on when taking this job: having to sleep in a building with several other people, all boys, and that probably few to none would be amenable to his physical changes. Subconsciously, Drift pressed up against Gasket as he dismounted, curling his fingers against the grey destrier’s coarse fur and feeling the reassuring rumble of his steed’s breathing. 

“Yeah, kid. What were you-” Ratchet paused and looked over. Drift’s eye-contact with him seemed to pass along some sort of unspoken message, and the healer coughed gently. “Umm...the stables are always open,” he offered awkwardly. “There’s a hayloft that nobody really uses right now, and there’s no curfew or bed check. Sunstreaker won’t bother you if you stop by, so long as you don’t wake him up. The medical wing has a few spare bedrolls and sleeping furs. If you’re interested, that is.” 

Drift very visibly relaxed at the mention of the stables, and a part of Ratchet glowed at the comfort that he had offered. He’d probably need some sort of safe place, and there was no need for the kid to face every single situation with an excuse to deepen that chip in his shoulder further. Yes, that was the only reason for why he offered. The kid probably had a thing for horses anyways, seeing as his best friend had been a horse for most of his memorable life. “Thanks,” Drift mumbled-

“AWOOOO!” 

“Bob,  _ stop _ !” Ratchet roared in protest as a large, loping bundle of fur, warbling a protracted howl, raced across the courtyard and slammed into the healer, sending him tumbling. How his excitable white horse hadn’t jumped at the approach, Drift didn’t have time to marvel because he raced around to try and save the medic, reaching for swords that he forgot he didn’t have-

“Get off, you daft mutt, get off!” Ratchet chuckled and batted at ‘Bob’, who was slobbering all over Ratchet’s face in a very obvious greeting, willfully ignoring the half-hearted protests of his victim. For the first time in his life, Drift got to see a fat wolf. He’d seen wolves before, as they were rather commonplace in the North, both in the wild and tamed, but they had always been lean and mean. The typical snout and ears and tail were very evident on this one, as well as the claws, but the grey and white fur was sleek and smooth, and there were obvious rolls of skin and fat along Bob’s barrel; somebody probably was into the habit of giving him far too many treats. His short stature gave away the fact that he was an obvious runt, but a well-off one. Hands awkwardly placed over the absent spaces where his swords would normally be, all that Drift could do was stare at the wolf showing his obvious love for the healer. Wide yellow eyes found him quickly, though, and an inquisitive, wet snout poked at his hand, accompanied with a whine. Apologetically and sympathetically, Drift slowly ran his fingers over Bob’s silky-soft ears. 

“Bob!” The wolf yipped, seemingly forgetting Drift, and waddled off towards the harsh, piercing command, and Ratchet could finally get to his feet and Drift could finally get a look at the Citadel’s imposing horse-master: a gangly, lanky man, some years older than Drift but still in the prime of his youth, with neat blonde hair and a tuft of blonde stubble along a lean face. Bob pressed up against his master’s legs and panted endearingly up into cold blue eyes, oblivious to any wrong-doing. “Daft runt,” Sunstreaker growled lowly, but surprisingly broad hands reached down and scratched under the runt’s chin. “Don’t wander off like that. Hey, Ratch’.” 

“Good to see you, Sunstreaker.” Drift had to help haul Ratchet to his feet, but the healer greeted the horse-master amicably. “You’re looking well.” 

“Mm,” the blonde grunted shortly. He barely glanced at Drift before turning back to the healer. “Good sabbatical?” 

“Fine. Oh, this is Drift, by the way.” Ratchet pushed Drift forward gently by one shoulder. “He’s a new Guardian, from Rodion. Drift, this is our horse-master, Sunstreaker of Kaon.” The healer could practically feel Drift’s spine prickling with distrust and anxiety at the new face while Sunstreaker looked him over with a scrutinizing glare. ‘ _ Come on, kid, don’t blow up at Sunny like you did with Cyclonus _ ,’ he thought with trepidation, willing the thought to get through Drift’s rock-hard stubborn skull. ‘ _ Sunny won’t hesitate to punch you for it _ .’

Very luckily, Drift had actually learned from last time, and waited for Sunstreaker to finish looking him over. “It’s nice to meet you,” the Rodian declared softly, but he offered a firm hand for Sunstreaker to shake, if he desired.

The blonde did not take Drift’s hand. “That your horse behind you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “The warhorse?”

“Yes.” Without even waiting to be tugged forward on his lead, Gasket cantered forward to meet Sunstreaker’s observing, gloved hand and pressed his muzzle up against it firmly. “This is Gasket. He’s-” 

“Dear to you, I get it,” Sunstreaker snapped, staring at every angle of Gasket’s face. “Now shut up and let me see.” He didn’t even have to do the work; Gasket turned his head slowly from one side to the other, let the horse-master touch him where beckoned, and held completely still for the rest of his professional examination. “This is a good horse, if a bit old.” Sunstreaker finished his exam with a pat to Gasket’s blaze. “Is he one of those special horses? The ones with higher awareness and sensitivity, like in the Old Tribes?” 

“Yes, sir.” Drift nodded. “How were you able to tell?” 

“I can just tell.” Sunstreaker  _ tched _ as he came around and looked Gasket dead in the face. “Alright, Gasket, if you’re gonna be living in my stables there’s gonna be some ground rules, got it?” 

The horse just looked the stablehand dead in the face and slowly, cautiously raised an eyebrow. Well, as much as a horse  _ could _ , anyways.  

“You’re probably a great horse, yeah? But you’re not the first awakened to come through those doors.” Sunstreaker waggled a finger in the horse's face in warning. “You’re likely not going to be the last either. So don’t think that you can just get away with any shenanigans on the premise of ‘oh, I’m just a horse, humans won’t punish me.’ You start getting a little big for your britches, you  _ will  _ be sleeping out on the commons, understood?” 

There was a moment of silence before Gasket slowly nodded. 

Sunstreaker nodded his head. “Good.” The horse-master gestured for Drift to follow as he grabbed Gasket’s reigns. “Now the rules are simple, Gasket. First off, try and be quiet late after sundown, yeah? My quarters are  _ part  _ of the stables, and the last thing I need is some rabble-rouser keeping me up. And don’t you dare just let out a single panicked whinny when you think I’m asleep and then let the rest of the stables pick up the slack, I’ll  _ know!”  _

“Has that been a problem?” Drift asked, a little bit confused. “I mean, I’m sure it won’t be a problem but-” 

“You’d be surprised how many Awakened decide becoming a problem whenever they’re in the stables is a good way to pass the time.” Sunstreaker explained over his shoulder. He led the old warhorse straight into a vacant stable and started working on removing the horse’s tack. “We’ve got some stores of oats for you, and since you’re an awakened I’ll be installing a pull-bell in case you run low between feedings, but try and be sparing as we’ve only got so many reserves-”

Gasket swung his head around at Sunstreaker with a snort, eyes wide with disbelief.

“ _And the feeding common’s grass is better anyways…”_ Sunstreaker concluded, his tone that of a friendly warning. “Besides, we try and save on oats because the commons can get a little patchy around the winter.”   
“You still put the horses to pasture in the winter?” Drift’s jaw dropped a little. “Through the _snow?_ ” 

“What snow, kid?” Ratchet hollered from his mare’s stable. “We only ever get the odd frost or two this far south. Technically kills the grass, but some of the horses rather like the frozen stuff, apparently.” 

“Indeed.” Sunstreaker nodded in agreement. “It’s something about the texture, I think.” He then turned his attention straight back to Gasket. “Oh, and one last thing: Most of your peers here are thoroughbreds of one breed or another.  _ Expensive  _ thoroughbreds. I suggest you keep your ‘pride’ in check, on pain of preventative measures, understood?”

Sunstreaker hadn’t even finished before Gasket started nodding fiercely.

“Good.” Sunstreaker nodded before handing Drift the horse’s tack. “You’ll find a storage shed next door, it’s the tackhouse, you’ll be able to put all of that away.”

* * *

 

After a quick stop to store their saddles, Drift and Ratchet walked over to the next building down the line. It was a large, white affair with tall glass windows along the side and white-painted wooden doors. Drift shot Ratchet a glance, and couldn't help but notice the half-smile on the healer’s face. “I take it you’re excited to get back, then?”

“Hrm?” The healer was pulled back to reality by Drift’s words. “Well, not  _ excited _ so much as relieved.” He looked back to gaze upon the stone infirmary with pride. “Haven’t been away from home this long in a  _ while.  _ Happy to see my attendants haven’t managed to burn the place down in three months.” The healer chuckled as he walked to the doors. 

“You mean to tell me you don’t have faith in the people you left to take care of the wounded?” Drift couldn’t help but fold his arms as they walked up to the doors. Guess doctors and healers were the same everywhere you went, regardless of what they called themselves. 

Ratchet just paused before opening the door. “Drift. Just  _ who  _ exactly do you take me for?” The medic jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, his voice a gruff grumble. “The men and women plying my trade behind these doors are the finest in Nova Cronum. I’ll bet a hearty pile of gold that they might be the best in the South, short of my old teacher back in his prime. I should know, I taught almost all of them myself!” Without a word more he pushed open the large, double-deckered door and headed inside. 

He got about three steps in before Drift found himself suddenly walking into an unwavering wall of muscle and armor that was a stationary Ratchet.

The infirmary was actually pretty typical of Drift’s understanding of medicine. Several healers- all noticeably younger than Ratchet himself- were rotating between several beds housing patients in various states of health. The place was a mess, but that wasn’t uncommon. A few mystery stains hung about the floor near several beds, and one of the patients was groaning in his bed. What  _ was  _ unusual, however, was the group of four healers frantically throwing themselves at said stains with rags and buckets. One couldn’t help but smell the sharp sting of lime solution in the air. All the while, Drift could feel the miasma slowly emanating out of Ratchet’s pores. It had already silenced the healer tending to the patient in the bed closest to the main entrance, and that red-and-white robed man was trembling slightly, wide-eyed.

The red-haired, headband-wearing patient on the other hand, seemed unaffected. He simply raised an arm to the door. “Hail, Healer Ratchet!” he loudly declared. With that single gust of hot air, the silencing aura oozing from the head healer rushed out to enshroud the entire room. It was as if the speaker has just announced that Mortilus and his deathly followers had come to purge the room and were just waiting inside the door.  

Then, another healer (this one looking about half-aged between most of the healers and Ratchet) walked into the room. He had a pile of cleaning supplies in his hands, and upon seeing Ratchet simply sighed and started laying them out on the floor methodically. “You see?” he moaned towards the young healers. “You see what your lack of attentiveness and respect has wrought?” 

Healer Ratchet of Nova Cronum took several deep breaths. Then he looked at that nearby patient, who seemed immune to the deafening silence. “Hello, Rodimus.” 

Rodimus just shot back a smile and a thumbs up. The black eye likely disarmed whatever charm he’d been attempting, Drift concluded. 

There were more deep breaths. Then Ratchet looked down at the middle-aged healer, who had now started dipping a rag in a lime-filled bucket. “First Aid?” He glanced this healer up and down. His clothes were worn and thin in places, but they seemed spotless. In fact it seemed like he’d over-bleached in a few places where red fabric had started turning pink. “This does not apply to you.” 

“I am unworthy of your mercy, Ratchet,” First Aid replied. He then smiled a little smile that wasn’t entirely innocent. One could easily get the impression he’d been waiting quite some time for this moment. 

What happened next defies mere summation in words. It was a primal outpouring of emotion into the air filling the halls. It was the lament of a father to his underachieving children distilled, magnified and then released into the mind’s eye without a single word having to be said. It was a fever-pitch of primal moans and grunts accompanying gestures at various stains and other unsanitary practices. It was an animal vocalization that if it had to have one meaning, would choose to declare soul-crushing regret over how it couldn’t convey enough disappointment. And then a strange and wonderful thing happened to Healer Ratchet- he started spouting complete sentences. 

“You realize people come to an  _ infirmary  _ to get  _ cured  _ of their diseases, not  _ collect  _ them, right!?” the bellow reverberated throughout the stone walls, and like that  _ every  _ healer in the room was dashing over to First Aid to pick up cleaning supplies. 

Meanwhile Rodimus just grinned and looked right at Drift. “Oi! Hey, you, stranger!” 

Drift managed to avert his gaze from the disaster occurring in front of him long enough to get a look at this “Rodimus” fellow. He had that grin. You know the one. The one where he’s convinced that the entire world is grinning with him, and why shouldn’t they? There was tons to be happy about with him around, after all! He was destined for greatness, and he didn’t even have to work on it! As such, Drift  _ immediately  _ was apprehensive of him. “What?” The response came out clipped, like a warning almost. 

But Rodimus didn’t seem to mind, nope, he didn’t mind one darn bit! Instead he swung his feet off of his bed and sat up straight, grinning like a loon. “Haven’t seen you around here before, buddy. Pleasure to meet you!” An eager hand was stuck out. “Name’s Rodimus! Rodimus of Nyon.” 

“Umm…” Slowly the newcomer offered his hand. For an injured man, Rodimus had a strong grip, and Drift tried to crush his fingers in return. “Drift.” 

“That’s a nice name!” Rodimus released his hand, and started rubbing his fingers. “Hell of a grip you’ve got, there. You going to be a Guardian, then? You seem the type!” 

Drift looked over Rodimus’ shoulder, completely distracted by the wall of rampaging medic throwing itself at just about every unsanitary patch in the room. “Erm…” He glanced over at Rodimus. “Yes?” 

“Oh, nice! Hey, Tailgate, buddy!” Rodimus turned around and looked at the young man in the next cot down the line. It was a young man who hadn’t torn his eyes away from Ratchet. “Oi!  _ Tailgate! _ ”

“Bwuh!?” Tailgate whipped around on his bed, looking between Rodimus and Drift with frightened speed. After a couple moments of realizing that no, of  _ course  _ Ratchet couldn’t be in two places at once, his pupils grew from the pinpricks they had been. Drift immediately decided that Tailgate had made a terrible mistake, being a Guardian. His blue eyes were too big and gentle, his hair looked purposefully cut short and styled to resemble a toddler’s, and he still had  _ baby fat  _ on his face, for Primus’ sake! 

“Looks like Drift here is gonna take up Guardianship!” Rodimus jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.

“Oh, is he?” Tailgate looked over at Drift and smiled uneasily. “Well, best of luck to ya, then!” 

A finger immediately met Rodimus’ chin and began tapping some unknown staccato rhythm. “We should take him on a tour.” 

_ “What?”  _ Tailgate and Drift both blurted out, but the exclamation expressed two different emotions; Drift, one of shock, and Tailgate’s was of delight. 

Rodimus put his hands up defensively. “What? Hey, would you rather we stand around and listen to that all day?” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. 

“Erm…” Drift looked over as Ratchet ranted and raved around the room. “Ratchet was actually supposed to give me the tour.” 

“Oh, I’m sure he won’t mind.” Rodimus grinned as he turned back around. “Hey! Ratchet!” 

“FUCKING WHAT!?” 

Rodimus didn’t so much as wince. “You mind if I take the new guy on the tour?” 

“FUCK IT. SURE.”

“See? Easy peasy.” Rodimus shrugged before finally standing up. “You need a hand, Tailgate?” 

“No…” The chubby blonde hopped off of his bed. “I’ve been knocked worse than this, before.” He tapped his forehead gingerly, where a raised lump had a bandage on it. 

Drift didn’t really know how to react as Rodimus grabbed him by the wrist and practically dragged him out the door. In fact it took him a few stunned moments before he ripped his hand free of the man’s wrist, bringing the whole group to a screeching halt. “I can walk  _ myself,  _ you know!” he basically barked before turning on his heel and walking back around the infirmary. 

Rodimus looked down at Tailgate, and the shorter, stouter trainee looked back up at him in a moment of stunned silence. Then they both shrugged and turned to follow the newbie. The barracks were already full of aloof trainees, after all, one more on the pile couldn’t hurt. “Erm, wait, hold on, you don’t quite know where you’re going!” Tailgate called after the newest guardian. 

“I’m sure I’ll find my way around,” Drift muttered as he surged ahead. He didn’t need this, these two complete strangers showing him around the place. He could go in and figure things out himself, surely. 

“Well, yeah, but-” Rodimus chattered as he followed.  “If you go that way you’ll end up finding your way around the sparring pit-”

“And it’s kind of in use at the moment.” Tailgate huffed as he kept up with the group’s brisk walk. “Best stay out of the way.” 

“You know what?” Drift hollered over his shoulder as he rounded the back side of the infirmary. “Best nothing. It’s  _ best  _ I get to blow off some  _ steam. _ ” 

“You…” Tailgate tried to think of an elegant way to phrase it as the cacophony of Ratchet raging in the background was replaced with a different storm of noise entirely. In fact, the smaller man sighed with relief as the group finally came to a halt. 

They’d stopped because Drift was having trouble understanding exactly what he was looking at in the sparring pit. There were several young men in variously colored armors struggling to take down what appeared to be a single fighter in baby blue armor. While the various team members were all screaming bloody murder the taller, thinner fighter appeared to be  _ laughing.  _ Moreover, it was a  _ woman’s  _ laugh. 

The tall fighter was fighting in one of the strangest ways Drift had ever seen. In addition to her bright armor (which had an Autobot emblem on one shoulder with an eye seemingly gouged out) she was wielding two swords that appeared to be  _ part _ of her gauntlets. Drift could see no trace of her hands. That said, he hardly got a chance to look, the way she was moving. She was like a frenzied ball of spinning blades, rolling kicks, and vengefully dealt elbows. “Who… is that, exactly?” 

“That?” Rodimus put a hand behind his head. “That’s Whirl. She’s the combat instructor. Still feeling up for a spar?” 

“Um…” Drift blinked twice as Whirl sprang on top of a small, red-armored combatant and wrapped her thighs around his head, throwing him back to the ground as she rode him down, cackling and smashing the top of his helmet with the flats of her blades. It sounded like she was trying to play a song on him. “Uh… Not right now.” 

Tailgate started nudging his two compatriots over towards the next building, most importantly steering them  _ around  _ the sparring pit. “Alright then, let’s head over to the cantina, next,” he muttered with a forced grin. 

Drift and Rodimus walked like normal people after Tailgate, who for some reason or another was crouching behind the crowd of Autobot trainees. To be honest Drift found it amusing: it was like watching a bundled-up bedroll trying to move like a cat. In fact, the newcomer formed the distinct impression that Tailgate maybe spent a lot of time in the cantina. 

It didn’t take long to reach the building- a long, stone thing with a simple thatched roof for reasons Drift couldn’t hazard to guess. From inside there came the rumbling white noise of a building full of people, along with occasional outbursts of song. There was also the  _ smell.  _ Drift may have eaten his fill out on the street, but the smell was still quite enticing… it was an alluring blend of earthiness, spiced meat and salt. It smelled like a warrior’s banquet. “Is today a special occasion, by chance?” 

“Hm?” Rodimus looked back at Drift with a pause, his hands up in the air (he was about to push the modest wooden doors open.) “No, not really.” 

Drift immediately reassessed his opinion. The hall smelled like excess. 

With a heavy thud, Rodimus flung the doors to the cantina open and hollered out:  _ “Helloooooooooo, fellow guardians!” _

There was a lull in the chatter of the hall for about five seconds. They were positively agonizing. All heads had turned to the door, and Drift could feel each and every pair of eyes sizing him up. Looking him over. He could feel the sweat beading around his forehead. How many of them could possibly suspect? There were  _ so many  _ of them, but there’s no way they could tell, right? He’d always been so careful after all. 

Then the moment simply passed. The Guardians throughout the cantina went back to their food and drink, and resumed the uninterested chatter of people who’d gotten used to a walking spectacle. “Well.” Drift muttered to Rodimus.  _ “You  _ certainly seem to have a reputation.” 

“I should hope so!” The red-garbed man smiled as he grabbed the nearest open spot on a bench he could find. The hall was taken up by three rows of long tables with matching benches on either side of them. 

Tailgate followed behind him with a relieved plop. A venturing hand reached for a leg of turkey from a serving platter in the middle of the table, almost reflexively. “Don’t worry though, Drift. We’re really not a big deal or anythi-  _ ow!”  _ Tailgate flinched and rubbed the spot on his side where Rodimus had just jabbed an elbow. “Well… Anyways…” 

“Come and grab a seat!” Rodimus patted the empty spot on the bench next to him. “And then dig into some grade-A Nova Cronum delicacies!” 

“No thanks.” Drift shrugged. “I already had lunch.” Not that the meal wasn’t tempting, mind you. There was fresh bread, spiced roasts of various meats, potatoes prepared in myriad ways, even what seemed to be seasoned rice and various cheeses. 

“Eh, suit yourself.” Rodimus shrugged before grabbing a lambshank.

Drift decided to wander about the cantina for a bit while his two “guides” ate their fill. Not that they’d been doing much guiding, mind you, more like simply going about their days and dragging the sellsword along with them. Eyes wandered about the hall, sizing up various guardians. If he was to spar against them, it’d be best if he had even the roughest idea of their capabilities. He’d gotten about halfway down the hall when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. Drift didn’t turn around. Instead he simply sighed. He was unsurprised and unamused when the hand turned him around of its own accord. 

The sight greeting him was a pair of Autobots that could only be described as extraordinarily average. They were about Drift’s height, had a warrior’s strong chin (but not enough to make them stand out from any blacksmith on the street) and were sneering like they’d just heard a funny joke that only the two of them would understand. Oh, and they were absolutely identical to one another except for their vests, with one wearing red and the other a pale blue

“Whaddya make of him, Shock?” The blue one (whose hand was still sat on Drift’s shoulder) asked. 

“I dunno, Don’t recognize those house colors, Ore.” Shock replied, still smirking. “Probably a tiny-ass house, if they ain’t sent any folks our way before.” 

“I’m standing right here.” Drift spat irritably, brushing Ore’s hand from his shoulder. Here he’d hoped that Tailgate and Rodimus would be the most bothersome people they’d run into today. “I’m sorry, is there a problem?” 

“Well, that all depends, you see-” Shock started. 

“-Depends if you feel like makin’ any trouble-” Ore continued.

“-Not that we mind trouble, mind you-”

“-Kinda prone to it, you might say-”

“-Wouldn’t count on their help, though, if I was you.” Shock jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at Rodimus and Tailgate (who’d just gotten up from their bench.) 

Ore simply tapped his forehead. “Yeah, friend, those bumps didn’t appear all on their own.”

“So choose wisely, that’s all we’re saying.” Shock finished. 

Drift was already rubbing his temples “Oh, Megatronus above, you talk too much,” he groaned into his palm. 

“Awright!” Ore hauled back for a punch. 

“Problem it is!”Shock did the same with the opposite fist. 

Their attempts at a synchronized opening attack were thwarted by the big, gloved, meaty hands that closed around both of their fists. Drift immediately became aware of big, dark shadow that was standing immediately behind them. “Sorry about them,” it drawled. “Kinda ridin’ high after their big win.” Drift could hear knuckles cracking as the figure let go of Shock and Ore’s hands. 

“Hey, sorry about that, Trailbreaker-” Shock started.

“-Yeah, just trying to break in the new guy-” Ore continued

“-Ain’t no harm meant, honest!” The blue twin finished. 

Trailbreaker just looked down at Shock and Ore with a resounding frown of disapproval. “Yeah. Sure.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “How about you boys enjoy your lunch elsewhere, yeah?” 

“Yeah, ain’t no problem.” Shock nodded furiously.

“You have a great day now!” Ore even gave Drift a thumbs up before backtracking along with this twin back to a distant table.

Drift, for his part, simply blinked twice before looking up at Trailbreaker. Somehow, just like that the black-clad behemoth (who up till now may as well have had “menacing” written on his chest) softened up, smiling apologetically at the stranger. “Sorry about them…” Trailbreaker offered a hand. “They don’t really know self-control too well, mister, ah…”

“Drift.” The sellsword replied with subtle gratitude, tipping his head politely to the other Guardian. “And thanks for that.” 

“Oh, come now, it wasn’t any trouble.” Trailbreaker smiled, appearing slightly relieved. He had a kind of bearlike air about him. Not like a real bear, though, more like those ones from storybooks that mothers made stuffed animals out of. “Really, they’re always like that, please don’t judge ‘em too harsh now.” 

“Oi, Breaker!” Rodimus hollered as he came up from behind the big man, even hopping up a bit for a clap on the shoulder brawny. “Thanks for the save! Don’t think getting into a cantina brawl would’ve been the best way to get our new friend here acquainted with everybody. Well, everybody worth knowing,” the ginger added as an afterthought. 

“Weren’t no trouble, Roddy,” Trailbreaker rumbled down. The giant seemed to be an agreeable sort, obviously strong but calm and kind. “Figured I’d knock two birds with one stone and give a good impression to the new guy. Hey, TG,” he smiled down at the portly Tailgate running to catch up to Rodimus. 

“Hey, Breaker.” Tailgate offered awkwardly. He was slouching in relief, like he  _ really  _ hadn’t been looking forward to a possible rematch. “Sorry about that, Drift. Don’t worry, lunch around is actually pretty boring, normally.” 

“You know, what? It’s fine.” Drift brushed past the three guardians and began making his way to the exit. “I think it might be best if I got some fresh air before I continued. Please-” He turned back towards his new “friends” and even spared them a polite, stiff bow. “Enjoy your lunch.” Without a word more he was out the door, with all of maybe five people bothering to notice. 

The newest guardian found himself leaning on the door’s stone frame, letting out a deep, cleansing breath. This was going to be a disaster. This “mission” he’d been sent on was going to end in unprecedented, unquestionable, unavoidable disaster. Sweaty palms muffled a panicked shout as Drift came to the full realization of exactly how doomed he was. He wasn’t fully doomed, not yet, but he could see that doom from here. Maybe,  _ maybe  _ he could keep the facade up around normal people, but  _ here?  _ Surrounded by utter  _ lunatics!?  _ Sure, they seemed nice enough, but you’d never know they had dedicated their lives to the service of another. Hell, they were all acting like they’d never been seriously duty-bound in their entire lives!

He pushed off of the wall behind him and meandered around the building, slowly. He just needed a moment to clear his head. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was too late to go back the stables, grab Gasket and just ride away and forget this ever happened. But… No, he was deep,  _ deep  _ behind Autobot lines. Odds are he’d never make it out without a guard or somesuch stopping him. He came around the back of the building and all but collapsed in a heap next to the cantina’s service entrance, utterly overwhelmed and lost in his thoughts. How was he going to keep the act up? How long would he have to stay? What are the odds- really- that Orion had meant any of what he said at any point? That this wasn’t some horrible, cruel farce?

After a protracted moment of silence, Drift’s head jerked up at the sound of the door opening. His blue eyes locked with eyes of turquoise through small-yet-thick lenses as a small, middle-aged man in resplendent orange-and-white robes walked out from the service entrance. Bushy brown eyebrows all but vanished into brown, curly hair in surprise. “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t see you there,” The newcomer explained. 

Drift just shot back on his feet. “No, no, it’s no problem, really, I was just…” 

“Just…?” The man tipped his head, slightly. To be honest it was uncommon for  _ anybody  _ to loiter outside the cantina who wasn’t part of the wait staff.

“Just…”  _ Just rethinking my life choices? Just wondering who I’d wronged on such a cosmic level? Just panicking deep down, where nobody can see it?  _ In the end, the young man just shrugged a tired, maybe even desperate shrug. “I’m sorry. I don’t really know.” 

“Ah, I see.” The stranger reached up, putting a gentle, wrinkled hand on Drift’s shoulder. “My name’s Rung, formerly of the Pious Pools.” His smile was small, but sincere to such a degree that even through his spectacles you could see it gleaming in his eyes. 

“Drift…” The young man sighed. So many new people today.

“May I ask again why you’re here?I don’t believe I’ve seen you around,” Rung went to ask. He shifted slightly, and Drift only then noticed the steam rising out of the corners of the basket hanging from his elbow. He’d apparently been cooking, and it smelled  _ delicious.  _

Drift’s mind struggled for the quickest, most honest answer he could find. “I’m to be a Guardian. I’m new.” 

“Oh.” Rung visibly blinked. “Well, that’s very good of you! I hope that you’ve found the Crown to your liking-”

“Hah!  _ New?”  _ a shrill voice called out. 

With that, the kindly sparkle faded somewhat from Rung’s eye, and Drift was taken back. He knew that kind of voice- enough of a flourish to suggest indignation, but not enough to suggest that the speaker was actually interested in what they were saying. 

“There’s nothing  _ new  _ about him!” the voice rang out, male and oh-so pretentious to make Drift want to punch him in the nose. Or at least, he assumed that he was male, and had a nose. The white-clad apparition appearing in the door to the cantina kitchens looked like how a child would wear a sheet to tailor himself as a spirit for the harvest festival. 

“Um… I’m  _ sorry?”  _ Drift began. Deep, deep down in his soul he felt old feelings welling up again. Feelings that he had long-since considered repressed and dealt with. 

The white shroud contorted in such a way as to suggest a hand being placed on a hip. “You heard me.” There were a chorus of titters and even a few guffaws from behind the apparition, and Drift became aware of a huddle of similarly clothed people milling about behind this…  _ person _ . 

“Consort Powerflash, that’s enough!” Rung snapped at the party of spirits, and like that they all went silent.

All the while the feelings came welling up. Feelings of being trapped. Of insecurity. Of inadequacy, and never quite being good enough. Drift gritted his teeth, and old, old instincts kicked in as malodorous fumes rolled out of the kitchen. “Is someone by chance boiling tripe stuffed with kidneys?” He asked in his best impression of earnest curiosity, feigning looking around the group of white ghosts. “I think you may be managing to burn it, somehow.” 

Just like that this “Powerflash” stammered before turning and forcing his way back through the crowd. Bless everything that was holy, the offender appeared to be the great pillock’s meal that he was busy stuffing into his own basket, burnt brown juices staining the shroud near his arm.  _ Must be cooking class. Cripes, I hated cooking class.  _ Without a word more, Drift bottled all of that oldness back up and buried it where it belonged before looking over at Rung. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry, but, uh… What is this… whole…” he gestured discretely over his whole face. 

“Oh, that’s just a custom here, you see.” Rung smiled. “You’re… well, you’re certainly new. Not that that’s a bad thing, mind you.”

“Eeeeey,  _ Rung!  _ Long time no see!” Like a flamboyant red courtesan, Rodimus hooked around the corner of the building and slyly inserted himself into the conversation. “I see you’ve already met the newest of the ol’ rank and file, eh?”

“Yes, I certainly have, Rodimus.” Rung smiled softly. “I believe it’s been awhile since we’ve last met. Are you still- Ah, deary me, here he comes.” He smiled as Tailgate finally rounded the corner as well. 

“Hey, sorry I’m late, I, uh, got stopped.” Tailgate held up a hand. 

Drift and Rung both raised their eyebrows at the same time. The trace of mutton on Tailgate’s face told a different tale. “Well, gentlemen,” The orange-robed man bowed deeply. “It’s been a pleasure seeing you all again, but I believe I must return to my charges, now. Oh, and Drift,” he turned finally back to the Northerner. “Should you ever feel like you need someone to talk to, whether in regards to adjusting at the Citadel or how your day went, my office doors will always be open to you.” Without a word more, Rung vanished back into the kitchen. 

“I hate them already.” Drift muttered before turning and storming away from the cantina.

“Who, _ Rung?” _ Rodimus gawked, as if he’d just been told that water ran uphill. “I think there’s a universal law against hating Rung. Even some of the old  _ Decepticons _ in the city like Rung-” 

“ _ No. _ ” The sellsword turned back and looked at Rodimus, partly stunned. “The  _ Consorts.”  _

“Oh, they’re not all that bad.” Tailgate shrugged, jogging to keep up on his smaller legs. “Besides, you’d best get used to them, you’re going to end up bound to one, after all.”

Drift nearly gagged on the thought as he absorbed it. “Oh, fucking  _ kill me now.”  _


	12. Of Prissy Gossips and Bewildered Teachers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rung instills the importance of judging one by their internal selves... Or rather, in which Rung attempts to instill the importance of judging one by their internal self.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Anna1795 and edited by Cumby1011, who both thank you for your continued support!

Rung’s small troupe of Consorts swept into the Ivy gardens in a flutter of stark white and embroidered cloaks, twittering and gossiping like songbirds, but their words carried the harsh, discerning bite of a pack of ravenous wolves.

“He’s a jokester. A court jester, at best,” one girl stage-whispered to her female friend.

“Did you see what he was wearing? So drab and lifeless, like a servant’s garb,” her friend replied with a critiquing hiss.

“And a Northerner? He even _looks_ barbaric, what with his unkempt hair and face,” a boy just peeking on manhood sneered, causing the collective group to shudder.

“And he’s old! All of those wrinkles on his face- I wouldn’t want someone like that hanging off of my arm in front of my Lord!’

“My laundry smells less sharp than he did! Does the man _sleep_ in a sack of mint leaves?”

Rung just kept on walking in silence to lead the Consorts further into the silent garden. Small fruit trees sprouted from the ground in precise, carefully manicured positions and fenced-off plots along the cobbled path. The psychiatrist knotted his fingers together in his wide sleeves anxiously, and he was grateful for the large lenses and colored tint to his glasses to mask his eyes at first glance. Under the frames, his pronounced eyebrows were furrowed with worry and displeasure at the comments from behind him. The Consorts tended to be picky and criticizing, but he had yet to hear one positive remark from them regarding the young Guardian whom they’d just met. Well, not young by Guardian-in-training standards, anyways. By first impression, he seemed sharp-tongued and dour, yet polite, much like Cyclonus. Being guided around by Rodimus and Tailgate might prove beneficial, if mostly to help soften those rough edges and stress lines on his face. Something about him had pricked at the edge of Rung’s hyper-aware consciousness like a rosebush, though. That would certainly take further investigating…

Rung only came out of his personal musings when the voices behind him had dimmed down to a faint muttering. While he’d been continuing on his way and lost in his own thoughts, his entourage had stopped underneath the sprawling branches of a lemon tree several plots back and seemed to be huddled together, making pointed and barbed comments about the new arrival and adding strange accents and phrases, almost as if they were addressing someone else that Rung had not seen yet. That could only mean- ah, yes.. Hidden among the top boughs of the lemon tree, a mass of long, platinum blonde tresses flowed over white robes whose occupant clung to the trunk and faced down at the small crowd below. Several of the young Consorts at the trunk of the tree tittered and sneered.

“You know, he’s certainly old and withered enough-”

“Probably has dulled his tastes and sensibilities-”

“Might make a decent match for our _other_ decrepit relic wandering the halls.”

“I’m sure that Alpha Trion would be most _flattered_ ,” Rung called as he marched back to his troupe, “to hear that you were calling him a ‘decrepit relic’, Consort Powerflash.”

The collected Consorts fell into complete and perfect silence upon Rung’s approach. Very few of them had the grace and decency to look ashamed of themselves, and Powerflash was not one of them. “No, sir,” the young man admitted with his chin held high. “I was not speaking about High Lord Trion.”

“I’m pleased to hear that. However, _nobody_ in these halls, or _anywhere_ , should be referred to like an ancient artifact or an object,” Rung reciprocated with animated hand movements and as serious a tone as he could muster. “People are not lesser based on where they’ve come from, their age, or their gender. Every person has their part to play in the grand scheme of life.”

“Lord Rung,” Consort Highstep peeped up from the back of the crowd in her mouse-squeak voice, “for someone who professes to be a staunch opponent of Naturalism, your language seems to mimic theirs quite a lot.”

“There are many differences between my language and that of the Naturalists.” Saying the _N-_ word left a bitter flavor on Rung’s tongue, and he suppressed a grimace as best he could. “Naturalists would say that a person’s role in life is dictated by gender, where they live, their accumulated land and wealth, and they are locked into that role for the rest of their life. I say that your role in life is what you make of it, regardless of station, and you should not judge others for how they choose to live.” Naturalism may not be the dominant opinion in the Nova Cronum Citadel anymore, and good riddance in Rung’s opinion, but the ideology had its apologists and proselytizers among the gentry. 

“So they say,” another Consort sniffed contemptuously. “But that doesn’t mean that the Northern upstart isn’t trying to rise up past his station, and his presence here isn’t appropriate among Autobots.”

Under his glasses, one of Rung’s signature eyebrows nearly disappeared into his chestnut hairline from sheer vexation. No, no, that wouldn’t do. It would honestly be best if these young ones were corrected calmly and professionally on their significant errors in speaking behind their new Guardian’s back like this. Teaching them kindness and respect so they might exercise it more liberally in the future. Give a man or teach a man, after all. “Well...does anyone have anything positive to say about our new Guardian?” Rung asked in a gentle tone, folding his hands into his sleeves. “Instead of looking at everything wrong with him, look for all of the _good_ things.”

The entire gaggle stood in stony silence for a few minutes. Then…

“He wasn’t rude?” A tiny young voice piped up from the back with something that was more question than answer, but she wasn’t wrong. “Guardian Drift was polite.”

It was a start. “Very good, very good!” Rung clapped his hands once in delight, prompting and buoying the positive responses. “Anyone else?” One by one, the younger Consorts began mumbling or saying compliments a little bit louder, while their older fellows continued to scowl or grumble.

“He looks very strong.”

“He does possess that dark, mysterious air about him, like those heroes from the fictional stories!”

“I like the look in his eyes. They’re very expressive, even if his face isn’t.”

“And Rodimus is his friend! If Rodimus considers him worthy of friendship, then he _must_ be a decent sort.”

“There, you see?” Rung prompted over the whispers and murmurs that had commenced. “Not everyone from the North is immediately a villain. As Consorts, it is our duty to remain as impartial as we can while still remaining cautious.”

“But that’s what we’re _doing_ ,” Powerflash whined petulantly, his shroud waving from the useless, frustrated flapping of his arms, much like a child during a tantrum. “We’re trying to stay aware of the Decepticon danger!” His friends nodded in tandem, and Rung’s smile curled into a very displeased frown.

“Yet, if our Guardians see us panicking from some imaginary threat, then they can begin to panic,” one of his friends pointed out evenly. “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions without a basis.”

“Then we _get_ a basis.” Powerflash turned back to Rung. “You’re a Mentalist, right? Do...whatever you do! Read his mind-”

This was going too far. “I will not!” Rung exclaimed, bordering on furious with his hands clenched at his sides. “I have promised to never look inside someone’s mind without their express consent. Drift did not consent, so I did not look, nor will I look to satisfy frivolous fearmongering!” In his unrestrained revulsion to the idea, Rung had...maybe overexerted his voice a little bit, and his troupe hung their veiled heads in reactive shame to his onslaught. No, no, this wasn’t how he had wanted to end things… “My apologies,” he added quickly, and in a much calmer tone. “I do not mean to upset any of you. Any self-respecting Mentalist would feel similarly to such a suggestion. Please, let us disperse and try to think things out with calmer minds. We can discuss this tomorrow, if you all wish to.”

“Yes, Lord Rung,” the fourteen Consorts mumbled respectfully, bowing at their waists before dispersing in the direction of their respective rooms, some of them pairing or grouping together. Rung ran a gnarled hand through his hair in mild aggravation and inhaled slowly, working to calm his primed nerves. It wasn’t their fault, he told himself, not really. Consorts were encouraged by society to be critical and snide as their own form of social maneuvering, given that they weren’t allowed to be on the forefront of the political frontlines. It was cruel, and he tried to promote goodwill among them, but there was little that he could do when they were actively tearing each other down.

“ _Primes above and below_ ,” Rung mumbled, moving back towards the gardens and removing his spectacles for cleaning. He purposefully turned away from the lemon tree at the center of the garden, choosing to face a carefully manicured holly bush instead. The squeak of the glass as he rubbed at the spectacles couldn’t cover up the soft rustle of waxy broad leaves or the crunch of leaf litter at the tree’s base, but the Consort who’d been hiding in the branches deserved his own chance to escape back to his rooms. Rung looked back up towards the sky, and saw that the sun had barely dipped below the towering wall of the Hall of Ivy’s compound. “I’m getting too old for this.”

“Primus, Doc, who reset your hips?!” Whirl yelped as she poked and prodded at Ratchet’s lower back. Said medic in question tucked his head back into his forearm and grumbled into the damp stone while Whirl and Ambulon worked at helping soothe his aching muscles and joints. “Did you just toss yourself down a cliff to knock them back into place? Admirable, but I wouldn’t recommend it in the future.”

Ratchet hissed through his teeth as Ambulon popped the knuckles of the senior Healer’s right hand. “Talk to Knock Out when you next go out into the city, Whirl,”

“Gotta leave this stuff to the proper medics, you do,” Ambulon grumbled, cursed as his modesty towel nearly slipped from around his naked hips, and tucked the corners back into each other deftly before resuming his tending to Ratchet’s hands.

“He volunteered to help after I got tossed from my horse! What was I supposed to do?”

“I know what Ambulon will say,” Rung called over his shoulder from his cross-legged position in the hot pool. “He’ll say, “Wait until you get back so that you don’t have to feel it twice in one day.” Am I right?”

Ambulon just grumbled to himself again in time with Ratchet’s subvocal growl. Whirl chittered at her paramour’s verbal jesting and continued to rub at Ratchet’s calves with her didactyl fingers. The four of them oftentimes engaged in discussions like this when they happened to be at the hot baths at the same time. It was nice to catch up on the local gossip on both rings of the Citadel, seeing as they were separated most of the time. Rung relished the companionship with the medical staff, and it was good for Whirl to socialize with mature adults after being exposed to trainee Guardians all day.

“Can I just say thanks for the new kid that you brought in, Doc?” Whirl paused in her massaging to look up Ratchet’s bare back at him. The Healer tensed and tried to look up, but the younger Ambulon pushed him back down again.

“Whirl? Saying ‘thank you’? Is it the End Times already?” Ratchet settled for a gruff joke. Rung just looked over at his paramour with interest, and she shrugged unrepentantly and rocked a knuckle into the Healer’s hamstring.

“I can be grateful. I just choose not to unless it’s actually warranted. Back to the matter, the kid looks like he’s actually _had_ experience. He’s got that muscle and gait about him. He’s seen some action, and I can work with that better. I mean, if his appearance is anything to go by, at least.”

“Good luck,” Ratchet scoffed. “He’s gruff, shrewd, impertinent, stubborn-”

“ _Aww_ …” Rung cooed softly, shifting under the steaming water. “Ratchet, you like him already.”

“I do not!” the Healer sputtered indignantly at the gentle, harmless teasing. “What the hell would make you think that I do?”

Ah, blissful denial. “Ratchet, do you consider us all as your friends?”

“Begrudgingly.”

“Take it from me,” Rung offered, with smirks from the other two, “that when you’re describing someone that you can tolerate or hold close to your heart, it’s usually with that collection of words or near synonyms.”

“Wow, Rung…” Ratchet flashed one of his nastiest grins that he could muster at the slighter man, “By that logic, I must absolutely _adore_ Sentinel, do I?”

“Don’t take me for a fool, Ratchet. Remember that none of us are in Sentinel’s corner,” Rung reminded his friend while leaning on his elbows. “However, I’ve noticed a difference between the usual vitriol that you describe Sentinel and the harshness with which you just described Drift.”

“I still think you’re full of shi- yow! Watch it, Whirl!” Ratchet yelped in pain as Whirl slowly rotated his ankles.

“My bad,” the swordsmistress smirked, and Rung’s talk with Ratchet concluded unceremoniously as the other three began a snark-off with each other. The lord could do little but smile wistfully at their playful antics and let the day’s stressors wash away in the hot bath.

Rung lay in bed that night with Whirl against his bare back, limp and boneless and his mind racing with thoughts. Something prickled at the edge of his senses, some gut instinct of major changes in the near future. There wasn’t much that could be done about them now, though; Mentalists had a notoriously hard time being able to decipher what their heightened intuition was warning them of, so there was no use whipping himself into a frenzy. Rung let his mind and senses wander…

_In the stables, a young man curled up against the side of his horse and twitched in his restless dreaming before being nudged to stillness by his animal companion. In one of the hay lofts, an affectionate wolf dozed happily beside his still-awake master, whose hands were knotted into fur while keeping his nightmare-induced shivers down fiercely. A handful of Guardians argued and gossiped in their barracks nearby about the new addition to their ranks._

_In the tower next door, one Consort stared out at the night from her balcony, glaring as if challenging the faraway stars. Next door to her, a platinum-embossed head was bent over an open novel about daring knights and swooning lovers, reading by candlelight and dreaming of mysterious strangers._

_Still elsewhere, a silver mane lay sprawled over open scrolls from where its reader had fallen asleep in his usual nest of historical and philosophical texts, succumbing to his preferred nightmares of guilt and shame._

Rung smiled softly and sadly as he came back to himself and closed his eyes in slumber. If Drift was an instigator for so much change, as his senses were telling him, then there wasn’t much to do but wait for what the future would bring.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any questions or comments that you'd like to make or ask about this AU, you can direct them to: 
> 
> www.tumblr.com/blog/anna1795
> 
> We'd love to hear from you!


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